Quiet Dignity
by Sterenyk Strey
Summary: 'He was battered, filthy and sporting nothing but grubby, torn boxers with a heavily bloodstained waistband, but not once did he take his eyes off their captors.' Shep whump/McKay angst. McKay POV. Unbeta'd. Prompt at end. XD
1. Chapter 1

**QUIET DIGNITY**

oooOOOooo

A/N - just to address a little confusion here up front - McKay is getting names wrong here, not me. It does all pan out, but - my bad, basically, if it doesn't come across via internal monologue.

%-} - my apologetic face as well as my squiffy face...

Written for Sidhartinas aka Steve Austin aka John's Cat. Prompt at end.

Enjoy!

oooOOOooo

Quiet Dignity

Shafts of insipid, purple moonlight briefly speared John Sheppard, turning him into a macabre, silent parody of a ghost train exhibit. Little Mer had always hated those things. Not because they were beyond belief creepy, but because they were so fake. This was real. Big Mer aka Rodney couldn't rant and prattle as usual to mask his terror, so instead he lost himself in a maze of his own thoughts…

Rodney's darling mother had often - nay, endlessly - nagged her only, not so adoring son to make sure his whitey tighties were clean on every morning in case he should ever end up in hospital after a car crash or something equally dire. What she failed to tell him was to make sure his underwear was pristine if not ironed and starched to a crisp in case he should ever end up stripped and intimidated in front of liquored-up hillbillies who threatened to beat you senseless. Or rather, your best friend in two galaxies, one Lt. Col. John Sheppard. And for what? Ammoless weapons. The biggest Hollywood cliché of all time. At least, that was how he remembered it, hangover notwithstanding. He had a sinking feeling that there was more to it than that, but he couldn't quite recall, having passed out from not so manly inebriation.

Rodney sighed, and Sheppard moaned in tandem. They had been given no food or water, no bedding, and in Sheppard's case, no medical assistance. With their captors being the source of Sheppard's injuries, medical assistance was highly unlikely anyway, unless they wanted him healed enough to begin all over again. There was nothing Rodney could do but wring his cold-numbed hands, scrub his grimy face, stare skywards through the holes in the roof of their prison, and contemplate his exposed navel until the bad guys came for Sheppard again.

Rodney lay there in the gloom, itchy all over from a straw-induced rash, and struggled not to scratch his body raw. He tried to think back to happier times, but he just couldn't manage it. He tried to think of Jennifer, but the ghost of his mother loomed instead, a reproachful expression on her sour puss.

_Nonononono,_ he thought_. Not ready to die! The afterlife can wait! Begone, foul beast! I refuse to cross the River Styx with you! I have Nobel prizes to win!_ _Sheppards to patch up and haul home… _

He made the sign of the cross with his forefingers, felt idiotic for doing so, then despite himself looked down guiltily at his underwear. Spongebob boxers. A faded, grimy Spongebob right over his crotch sported a gash on his yellow forehead and a tear in his square pants. Lucky for Spongebob that he wasn't a McKay, or he'd incur the Wrath of the Matriarch. For Rodney to display grubby, unbleached underwear with brown skid marks and slash or suspicious yellow patches to all and sundry would have been of the utmost embarrassment to the late Mrs McKay. It was 'simply not done', like not placing a doily on a plate before serving hors d'oevres, or failing to mind one's Ps and Qs in some unspecified manner that made little Mer quake in heartfelt agitation. Ps and Qs? Pieds et queues. 'Tops' and tails, for crying out loud. What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean? Seriously, what was the woman thinking? Like he should understand etiquette by _osmosis_? By virtue of it being in _French? _The late Mrs McKay - may she rest in peace and quit haunting him - had lived to keep up appearances; being at Death's door took second place to 'what would the neighbors think?'

_Wehell, just look at me now, Mommie Dearest_, he mused. _If you hadn't already shuffled off this mortal coil, I'm sure you'd've dropped dead from shock by now._

"Sheppard?" No response. Dare he just reach out and touch… touch a frozen corpse and discover that he was finally alone in this miserable, backwater hamlet? _No! I'm not ready to say goodbye! Not to you, John. And what about Xena? Conan? Jen? He and Jen had only just… and what about Jeannie? Jeannie…_

Rodney was painfully aware that he and his sister, Jeannie, were mere trophies to displayed like objets d'art, (more French,) their photos and certificates bandied about in brag books over tea and petit fours, (even more French,) false niceties and a simpering 'You simply must come over sometime.' He wondered how they had ever come out so normal and well-adjusted. Well, Jeannie wasn't entirely normal. How could she be? She gave up everything to marry Kevin. Kevin? No matter. The man was an abject moron - he was an English major. Hello? And beneath her. But Madeline was reasonably tolerable. For a rugrat. He'd gotten used to rugrats after his experience on M7G-667, the children's planet. How come he could always remember figures and never names? Hm. Go _figure_. Anyway, once he had switched to 'disseminate chocolate' mode, the little brats pretty much worshipped him. Which is as it should be. Zelenka, take note.

Rodney could vaguely make out a Sheppard-shaped lump in the gloom of twilight. The doom and gloom of twilight. The doom and gloom and despair and despondency of twilight. (Okay, so he wasn't after the Nobel Prize for Literature or Poetry or whatever it was.) His and Sheppard's zero-star accommodation comprised one dismal, unheated leaky stone outhouse with an equally leaky thatched roof. He'd seen farmers treat their livestock better than this. Just when he finally plucked up the courage to feel for him, the Sheppard-shaped lump stirred, rustling the straw bedding and causing untold numbers of no doubt rabid rodent-like creatures to scurry to safer, Sheppard-free holdouts. Rodney snatched his hand back, and chewed his fingernails further to the quick.

"Sheppard? You awake? Yes? No? Maybe?" Rodney sighed once more. _How are you even still alive?_

"_Spongebob_ boxers, McKay?" Sheppard quipped, his voice quieter and gruffer than usual.

_Oh, thank the stars. Still here._ Rodney snapped out of his paralyzing fugue, and scrabbled a little closer. He could vaguely make out a sly smile cross his battered friend's face. That was a relatively good thing. Sheppard was clearly feeling a little chipper, despite their predicament. Well, perhaps not clearly, as he could barely see him in the gloom, and perhaps chipper wasn't quite the right word, but at least he wasn't morose. Okay, snappy comeback time. Genial banter and verbal sparring often kept his friend entertained and thereby halfway decent, alert company and thereby not _dying_ company whenever they were in dire straits, which was sadly all too often these days. No, not dying. They would come out of this in one piece.

One Dr Meredith Rodney McKay, PhD, etc, etc was at least prepared to meet his purported Maker with a clear conscience - apart from the whole trivial blowing up five-sixths of an uninhabited if not uninhabitable galaxy thing - but just not anytime soon. Yet, with the latter-day, badass, bad luck Sheppard in tow, who was to say today was not that day? _Maker? Meet Sheppard. Sheppard? Maker. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Rotgut…? _Rodney heard a groan, and snapped back to the here and now. Cue the genial banter and verbal sparring.

"Girlie pink and lilac-striped boxers, Sheppard? With a 'kick me' sign on the back? How about 'Kick me, I'm the biggest martyr in two galaxies'? Hm?" Rodney snorted with a wince.

"My sore ass hears ya. Yeah, dumb choice for days like this," growled Sheppard as he nestled into a Sheppard-shaped indentation. They had tucked themselves into a shadowed corner of their prison, away from draughts. Sheppard tugged more stinking, matted straw over himself for warmth, and gingerly wrapped his arms around his bare midriff.

"Seriously, do you really want to be grubbing in the mire like that, Sheppard? Our… _bedding_ is only fit for fertilizing rose bushes."

"I'm cold, McKay. And it's getting colder. We're half-naked. Got a better idea? I'm all ears."

"As a matter of fact, I - don't… " Rodney could hear Sheppard's teeth chattering, and felt a frown cross his face. He huffed. And changed the subject. "Little wonder you're frozen. You have no padding and you're just plain gangly." Rodney heard a derisive snort, but chose to ignore it. "I, however, am built for wintry climes. Like Canada. And just about every other planet we've ever visited in the Pegasus galaxy. Wait - 'days like this'? Like this is normal? Are you freaking nuts?"

Sheppard flashed his sorely missed, patent lop-sided grin of yesteryear, which morphed into a grimace as his dark head sank against the dank wall. As the single, watery moon finally retreated behind a cloud bank, his pained expression faded with it. _What you can't see won't hurt you_, Rodney thought. _Except in nightmares. _And this was a nightmare. A living one. The stuff of nightmares. And all those other clichés that are only clichés until you have to actually live them. Or study Shakespeare.

There was a sudden, vicious draught coming in from loosened and missing stones. Rodney was sure his neck would be stiff by daybreak, if not snapped by goons beforehand. Rodney curled in on himself, and shivered. He was cold after all, despite his body type. Then he had a brilliant idea.

"Sheppard?" he cried, but his best friend in all the universe was already snoring. Not wheezing. Definitely not wheezing. Rodney scrambled over to him, and despite his sense of outrage and indecency at cuddling a frozen, hirsute male with bony protuberances, he snuggled up, imparting his own failing body heat, hoping to avoid coming in contact with Sheppard's growing collection of grazes and bruises and lacerations.

"No-one's looking," he told himself firmly, ignoring Sheppard's moans. "Think clear blue skies and Jen's softly rounded br- soft curves. And light, flowery perfume, not rank eau-de-locker room ." As he drifted off into restless sleep, he pondered upon the events of the last few days, and wondered quite how they had both ended up so monumentally screwed…

oooOOOooo


	2. Chapter 2

7 days earlier.

Rodney McKay dabbed at his sweat-ridden forehead with a sweat-sodden bandana, and made very loud, very obnoxious squealing noises. He had hoped against hope that someone on his team might sympathize with his obvious growing discomfiture, but for some peculiar reason, his team collectively chose to ignore him. He considered feigning a limp, but he'd used that one only last week.

"Seriously, Sheppard, is there any reason we can't slow down just a tad?" Rodney was aware that he was whining, but he was past caring. Whining had been the only way he had ever gotten any attention from his parents that merited actual eye contact from them however fleeting, and whining often mysteriously worked in his favor even today. Today? No, not today. Today he was lumbered with three lithe, tanned and disgustingly super-cool exercise gurus, who chose to scan ahead of them all, and not even favor him with a single glance. Lumbered and outnumbered.

Rodney felt the back of his neck begin to burn. His arms were beginning to freckle, and he'd forgotten to slather on his factor gazillion sunscreen. He felt like tag-along prey amongst prowling predators. _Which of these things is not like the other, _he thought miserably, then settled on being a rose amongst thorns, a veritable genius amongst dullards.

Next time he'd wear a sweatband. And not just one but _two_ Sheppard-style wristbands. It would add to his 'cool', at the same time showcasing his recently-acquired uber-buffness. He could pull the super-cool exercise guru thing, too_. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, _he thought_. Richard Simmons, eat your heart out._

Rodney found himself putting on little spurts to keep up. He could feel his toes squelching in his boots, steaming away like cheesy potstickers. At least these days, blisters no longer formed on his heels. Calluses, yes. Even his hands were no longer silky smooth and putty-like, though his legs often felt like Jell-O. Like today. Like right now. Surely, the other three needed to rest at some point? What were they, automatons? Replicators? Ninety degree heat, hundred percent humidity - and evil flora. He could have sworn that the scraggy trees were minions of his mother, wagging their nasty, pointy little twigs at him in reprimand, and threatening to scratch his eyes out.

Much trudging and meandering was had by all, due to the downright vindictive topography of this miserable planet. And for what? It wasn't as if these hicks were likely to possess ZedPMs. Moonshine, maybe, to wash down roadkill, but precious little else. Suddenly, his beloved lab beckoned, imploring her favorite son to come home, to be cosseted and plied with copious amounts of filtered coffee with cream and marshmallows and five to ten heaped teaspoonsful of sugar and the merest dash of vanilla essence and -

Just then, a terrible thought crossed his mind. If the flora was that malevolent, what about the fauna? He pondered upon venomous creatures with nasty, pointy teeth and more legs than anything had a right to, and -

Sheppard's easy drawl jerked him back to reality. "Suck it up, McKay. Besides, you're buff these days, remember?" Damn that Sheppard grin. Rodney wanted to wipe it off his smug face almost as much as he wanted to savor it. Sheppard grins were as rare as ZedPMs these days.

"That's right. I am. Did you just wink at Ronon? Way to diss! No, wait! That was a compliment. Wasn't it?"

"You are looking quite…_ buff_, these days, Rodney," Teyla stated flatly even as she appraised him. "We are all extremely proud of you for exercising and for - 'stepping up to the plate', is it?" She raised one eyebrow and held it fixedly long enough to glare at her two recalcitrant boys. "Ronon and John - play nice. Effort is just as important as achievement, if not more so." Teyla drew in a deep breath. "He is trying," she added in a harsh stage whisper.

"Very," Sheppard stage-whispered back with a single raised eyebrow. Ronon snorted, and looked at Sheppard with a grin on his face that was verging on a snarl.

"Colonel Sheppard. John... " she cautioned.

_Incur the wrath of the Teyla,_ thought Rodney, _and she'll have both your asses on the mat. Hah! Revenge of the nerds! Cue the geeks! Yes! _Rodney did a mental fist pump and an impromptu half-twirl, then look about him sheepishly.

"Hey!" Sheppard shot his hands in the air in mock surrender, his best contrite puppy dog expression on his face. Teyla flashed him a warm smile, and rolled her eyes.

"Are you on his side now? No fair!" Rodney heard his own voice become more strident than ever.

"I do not take sides. That would be unjust. Good job, Rodney. Your hard work is showing." Teyla nodded encouragingly in his direction, making him feel like a veritable umpteenth dan ninja warrior for all of a nanosecond.

"I've been working out. At least once a d- week. Okay, month." He lifted his chin, and sniffed haughtily. "It's finally paying off. And you noticed. And it's making me burn off more calories as fat turns to muscle. Not that I was ever fat. I'm just well-padded. Speaking of calories, remind me - which delectable alien foodstuff are we pimping our expertise for today?"

"Citrus," Ronon deadpanned. This time, Sheppard snorted.

"Oh, har har. Juvenile as well as Neanderthal. That goes for you, too, grunt."

"Quit bickering, kiddies. We're nearly there. The terrain has gone… villagey."

"You started it," Rodney squealed. "Villagey?"

Sheppard put up his right fist for the team to stop. Rodney bumped into him.

"McKay!" Sheppard hissed.

Rodney soon found himself making twanging noises.

"McKay! Rodney! Quit that racket! It's… disturbing."

"Rodney, why are you making those strange sounds?" Teyla asked with a frown.

"It's… 'Dueling Banjos'. From the movie, 'Deliverance'. I make no excuse."

"I do not remember seeing this movie."

"You'd remember if you had," said Sheppard quietly.

_Each of these things is just like the other_, thought Rodney. _Except - these things... are people_...

oooOOOooo


	3. Chapter 3

Clones. They had to be. Either that or they were inbred. Rodney considered the latter to be the most likely possibility, given the isolated locale. Plus, they looked like they had barely discovered fire let alone invented the wheel. They made Ronon look positively Cro Magnon. Men, women, children clad alike in simple rustic garb, Pegasus-style, trickled out of rickety huts, and loped steadily towards them. _Zombies!_ Thought Rodney. _Cue the fog.._. They were soon surrounded by the villagers, who now flurried around them like windswept leaves.

The crowd parted to allow passage to a group of some thirty to forty crossbow-wielding men, who staggered at a pace towards them. Rodney watched in fascination as first Ronon then Teyla sniffed the air. A miasma of alcohol permeated the atmosphere, and it grew more offensive as the men approached. They were roaring drunk, and it was only mid-morning! Most couldn't even walk in a straight line. Frowning, Sheppard raised his P90, his shoulders hunched and his stance defensive. A sandy-haired man rivaling Rodney's own non-heroic stature and build moved in on them, stood four-square, and stared at the team. The man's keen eyes rested on Sheppard.

"Welcome, offworlders! As you can see, you are outnumbered, so make this easy on yourselves and hand over your weapons." The sandy-haired man belched mid-sentence.

"You call that a welcome? My cat could do better."

"Can it, McKay!" Sheppard growled without taking his eyes off the man. Rodney decided to can it. Sheppard shrugged boyishly, then cocked his head to one side, his P90 gripped tightly but aimed low. "Listen up, chief. We were invited here to trade. Food for medical supplies. You people need our help and expertise, we hear. I'd appreciate it if you'd lower your weapons."

"I sanctioned no such trade. Who invited you anyway?"

"I met a certain elder of your village," said Teyla as she stepped forward with a reassuring smile."He suggested we come. He was most vehement. "

"His name?"

"He introduced himself as... Amfikken P'kar-Klarrip, I believe."

At that, the man chuckled. "Good ol' Amfy. He came through for us." Rodney watched as the chuckle almost took on a mind of its own and touched first the entourage, then the remaining men, then the women and finally the children. Then, the chuckle was cut off in an instant, as the leader snapped his fingers. The team was instantly surrounded by armed men, but no attempt was made to relieve them of their weapons. Yet. Either way, they were screwed.

"Now, boys, we just arrived. It's been a long walk. We're hot, we're sticky, and in need of refreshment. If there is no chance of trade or hospitality, we'd best be on our way." Sheppard was pulling his easy diplomatic grin, with a dash of his loose, reassuring body language for good measure. He swept one open-palmed hand back towards the way they had come, turned away, and was prodded in the shoulder with a crossbow for his efforts.

_Nice try, Sheppard_, thought Rodney, ruefully, _but no cigar_.

" 'Hospitality' is my middle name," said the man, with a cold smile. "I am Maldar _'Hospitality'_ P'Kar-Bamfik. Come, meet my woman, Shanda, and that there… that there's m'boy, Garrek. This way. Won't ask you twice," and he signaled for them to be jostled deeper into the woodland.

Rodney was already tired, but now he was pissy to boot. They were back to trudging and meandering. Past any semblance of a residential area - if sheds counted as housing - to a scattered, dilapidated hotchpotch of buildings which smacked more of animal farming, light industry and an abandoned then repurposed resort. _Barnyard meets Bauhaus meets Holiday Inn meets the Apocalypse_, he thought. Pens and coops surrounded the marginally more sophisticated industrial buildings, one of which emitted an alarming, clanking noise, and another of which reeked of copper and cedar-tainted smoke. Rodney found himself flehming like a cat, which earned him a glare from Ronon; a grimace of disgust from Sheppard - one which he usually reserved for naked Asgard - and a knowing smile from Teyla.

"I smell blood, too," Teyla whispered in his ear. "I believe they smoke their meat in there."

"I prefer my meat in nice, tidy MREs. Meat, as far as I am concerned, grows on trees in cubes," he stated flatly as he thrust out his chin. Teyla sighed, and looked away.

Rodney spied marginally more upscale, two-story housing nearby in orderly rows much like resort accommodation, and oddly, some hundred yards away, something that looked like a trash heap with a diving board. Was that modern art, or a pool that had fallen into disrepair? Hm. Another building looked remarkably like a seventeenth century inn, or a themed hotel lodge. Rodney hoped that that was where they were headed, although with their track record, even benign, welcoming inns and lodges had a nasty habit of holding something sinister.

"You might as well hand them over, Sheppard. We're outnumbered," Rodney hissed.

"Problem is, McKay, any half-baked society can fashion bullets once a weapon is in hand."

" 'Half-baked'? You've got to be kidding me! This sorry batch never made it out of the proverbial mixing bowl!"

"Or into the proverbial melting pot," Sheppard answered in a weary tone.

"Got a plan yet, Sheppard?" growled Ronon.

"John, I fear… " whispered Teyla.

"Something's not right here, I know."

"You mean, apart from the whole 'hand over your weapons' thing? I don't like the way they keep looking at us. And their womenfolk and rugratfolk insist on following us. It's creepy. I can almost feel them breathing down my neck. I'm half expecting to turn around and find them doing the freeze thing. Like that stupid kids' game. For stupid kids. Seriously, Sheppard, do we have to go with them? We're going deeper and deeper into the woods. That seriously doesn't smack of hospitality."

"We have no choice, McKay. We'll play along for now. Teyla, Ronon, on my mark, I want you to get the hell outta here. McKay and I will keep 'em entertained. We'll join you later."

"We will? I very much doubt that Mulder or whatever his name is can be trusted."

Sheppard shot him a knowing look, then turned to Ronon and Teyla. "If McKay and I don't make it out by noon, head for home. Get help."

"Colonel Sheppard – John! - I believe my source might have been unreliable. If I do not get another chance to apologize, I - "

"Teyla, even if 'ol' Amfy' was as drunk as these good people, we were in a tavern, for crying out loud. I don't blame you. Not one little bit. This could still be good. Look at all these blue pears! And those spotted... " he rolled two fingers as if in search of a word, "supergrapefruits. They have so many, the kids are even playing soccer with them. Lookit!" And Sheppard wagged a forefinger towards a grubby bunch of cookie-cutter boys kicking a large, round fruit. Sheppard's voice had that excited, optimistic squeak to it. Rodney harrumphed. As far as he was concerned, the little brats could kick the living daylights out of citrus any day of the week. He reserved judgment on the optimism.

"What's the Cunning Plan, then, eh, Sheppard? If I am to be part of it, you might as well divulge now. We're almost on top of the place."

"Drink 'em under the table." Sheppard smiled slyly.

"Seriously?" Rodney resisted hitting Sheppard as he cocked his head to one side playfully.

"No. If they offer you booze, pour the stuff onto the floor, McKay, or into the potted plants. They're already hammered. We might yet have the edge if this all goes to hell in a handbasket. Look. These guys are not going to play nice. If they can treat their kids like this, they're not going to give a damn about us."

"Treat their kids like what?"

"Just - look around you." Sheppard indicated their strange entourage with a fleeting nod.

"They look inbred. Hillbillies? Hello? Duh?"

"There's more to it than that." Rodney watched Sheppard's eyes darken, and was about to ask what he meant, when they were ushered through a heavy oak door and into the inn.

"Seriously, Sheppard, how're we to 'keep 'em entertained'? I suck at the can-can."

"Just - talk too much as usual, Rodney. Now, why don't we find out how welcome we really are, huh?"

oooOOOooo


	4. Chapter 4

A/N - if you've been drumming your fingers waiting for the whump - yer 'tis! Enough with the scene setting, already! So, hold on to your hats, folks, it's going to be a whumpy ride… :-D

Reviews/feedback/concrit/pat on head or even a teensy little emoticon most welcome. Even days, weeks, months or years later... *flutters eyelashes/beats Shep clone to make him do puppy dog eyes* ...resistance is futile! :P

oooOOOooo

They were escorted none too gently into a vast, dimly-lit hall with familiar décor; it smacked wholly of Atlantis. The centerpiece of the hall, however, was a rough-hewn, rectangular wooden table, big enough to seat at least thirty people, forty at a pinch. No stain or polish was evident; it was left au naturel. _Talk about a design faux pas_, thought Rodney. _Frank Lloyd Wright meets Chainsaw Chic, Ancienty meets Neander-_

"McKay! Rodney! Sawdust! Potted plants! Remember?" Sheppard spat.

"Eh?"

Rodney looked around, and sniffed. The room smelled musty and sweat-tainted. It soon filled to capacity, like a bar on a Saturday night, and the 'patrons' draped themselves precariously over chairs and stools and inside booths, much like the crash positions in Airplane, an old movie they had accidently ended up watching only the night before. All because some mindless grunt had confused it with Snakes on a Plane, and no-one could be bothered getting up to change it out. Still, it was a blast from the past, he guessed.

All eyes homed in greedily on Sheppard. _Oh, not again!_ _What could it be this time? No, wait. He's the team leader. It's perfectly normal to stare at the team leader. They're just waiting for him to offer them goodies._

They were roughly ushered to their seats. Rodney sat down with relief, and reluctantly fought the urge to kick off his boots, and massage his aching feet through his sweaty socks. Ronon and Teyla cunningly managed to nab themselves seats nearest the door. They were both ready to bolt on Sheppard's mark. Sheppard ended up diagonally opposite Rodney, nearer the head of the table, furthest away from any means of escape. _Divide and conquer_, thought Rodney_. Not good._

"Saw. Dust… " mouthed Sheppard.

"_Eh?"_

"Sawdust? Potted plants?" Sheppard hissed. He mimed a quick swig, then tossed the imaginary drink sideways onto the floor.

"Oh. Right. Yeahyeahyeah. Sawdust. Potted plants."

"Well, now. Here we are." Mulder or whatever his name was parked himself imperiously at the head of the table, then belched. The room fell quiet, as if Mulder had just called a meeting to order by rote. "What's it to be? You hand over your weapons, or - you hand over your weapons. Won't ask you twice."

"Yeah, I get it," Sheppard replied wearily. He gestured for his team to comply. Goons relieved them of their weapons, and piled them in front of Mulder. He was clearly quite taken with Sheppard's confiscated P90, and began to stroke it fondly, caressing its contours, his eyes never straying from Sheppard, who returned the stare.

A horse-faced blonde, perhaps Sandra, Mulder's wife, tiptoed in with a trayful of nibbles. With the blank expression of a jaded waitress, she offered said nibbles to everyone present, which by then was a very alert and guarded team, all the men of the village between fifteen and fifty, and a handful of women. Oh, and one scrawny, odd-looking boy who stood next to Mulder. All were either blond or sandy-haired, relieved only by the occasional salt-and-pepper coif. They were either dumpy, stocky or weedy. Yay. The elite.

Sandra slunk off, and returned with four heavy mugs. She handed a mug to Sheppard, with a coy giggle verging on a whinney. Rodney noticed that they were all grinning like loons, and pointing at them. No, at Sheppard. _No, not good at all._ Either Sandra's giggle was infectious or Sheppard was pulling the Kirk thing again or they were about to be the butt of a rather nasty joke. He glanced over to Sheppard, who was looking slightly pained. Sandra then dumped a mug in front of Rodney, and slid the other two mugs like a veteran bartender down the table towards Ronon and Teyla.

"Thanks. I think," said Rodney with a sniff.

"Offworlders!' declared Mulder, sweeping his arms in magnanimous gesture and grinning broadly. "We offer you a great prize. For each of your large weapons, we give you a barrel of our famous brew. For each of your smaller weapons, we give you a flagon. We can keep you supplied, and we expect to receive more weapons in return. You'll never have to be dry again. How does that sound?" The man sounded like a cheap game show host. His hands returned to his new lap pet, Sheppard's P90.

"No. Thanks all the same," Sheppard stated flatly, his hands clasped in front of him. He put on his best poker-face. _Go, Sheppard._

"Drink." That sounded more like a threat than an invitation. "Won't ask you twice."

"Since you put it so nicely … " Sheppard leaned back, and took a lazy swig from his mug. "Say, this is good stuff!" He made a huge deal of appreciating the booze by toasting all present. "Ronon and Teyla - go back to the 'jumper and bring all our weapons and ordnance. It's the really big box, the one with the red cross on it." He tossed Ronon the GDO.

"On it," said Ronon with a wink, and he and Teyla bolted through the doorway.

Mulder signaled, and two of his men followed them out. "Jarren and Garf will be accompanying them, just to make sure they get there safely."

"Good thing. That box is heavy. They could use a little help."

Rodney caught a flicker of a smile on Sheppard's face. He suspected he hadn't swigged, or even sipped for that matter. Apart from the occasional beer, the man just wasn't a drinker. Rodney, however, found himself caressing his own mugful of hooch. The smell alone was enticing.

"Drink up. You wouldn't want to insult your hosts, now."

"Not much of a drinker," Sheppard ground out.

"You don't say. Hey, you!" Mulder wagged a forefinger at Rodney. "That goes for you, too."

"Thank you! Very hospitable of you, though some actual food might tide me over just as well." Rodney watched Sheppard mouth his name, followed by what he perceived to be yet another 'can it'. Rodney, however, craved sugar by now, and here it was in the form of alcohol. He took a nervous sip, then took a nervous swig. It would take a while for his body to metabolize the sugar in the alcohol, but in the meantime, he could enjoy a little euphoria. He told himself he'd earned it after that murderous trek.

Wow. The local brew was quite delectable and surprisingly smooth. It tingled his tongue. It warmed his throat. It packed a hefty kick. It made him think of Southern Comfort with a hint of coke. It was clear, too. You could spill it and never have to worry again about staining your sister's white living room carpet with splatters of red wine that wouldn't come out despite your best efforts at scrubbing with a damp facecloth or even those handy-dandy wet wipes she used on Madeline. He could do a roaring trade with this. Rodney knocked back an entire mugful, only to have it refilled by Sandra, or whatever her name was. Sheppard mouthed another word; rotgut.

_Damn you, Sheppard, why do you always get to name things? I wanted to name it 'shlurm.'_

Rodney went from buzzed to smashed in a heartbeat. _Shlllurrrmmm… mmm…_

And then it began. Mulder placed a pile of downturned photographs in front of Sheppard, anchoring them with a very imposing, very Ancienty, pear-shaped ceramic paperweight.

"Read," he said quietly.

Rodney saw two paperweights. Then again, he could see two Sheppards. So not good. He shook his head and forced his eyes to focus, blinking the while. The single paperweight was teal with a dusting of copper. The stem and obligatory jaunty leaf - also copper. Definitely Ancienty. Sheppard eyed it nonchalantly.

"Turn over the photographs." Maldar settled back in his chair, tilting it and rocking it on its back legs. He studied Sheppard intensely, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes betraying mild amusement. "Turn. Them. Over."

"Why." Sheppard's gruff tone made it sound like a statement.

"More to the point, why not? Just do it."

"I don't think so."

"What are you afraid of?"

"I'm here to talk and maybe trade, not reminisce."

"Ah! So, you already know what we want."

"Pretty much what the Genii and half the galaxy want."

"You. You match the description, and ol' Amfy spotted you offworld, on one of your do-gooder missions. He's a retired scout, don't you know, enjoying his retirement touring offworld taverns. He just happened to hit the motherlode." Mulder stood up and swaggered over to Sheppard, breathing fumes in his face. He flaunted his P90, waving it like a pompom, then twirling it like a baton. "We've been expecting _you_ for some time."

_A trap! We were set up!_ thought Rodney. His head was beginning to pound. _The paperweight. What's with the paperweight? It's not even breezy!_

"How do you know you have the right man? I could be anybody."

"Oh, come now. Don't take me for a fool. Faces can become a blur, but not in your case." Maldar very pointedly patted his own ears once, then tugged his own hair twice. "Even ol' Amfy could remember _your _picture, and that's saying something. Your picture. No-one else's. Just yours. We're not asking for your help."

"Then we're free to leave."

"No, _you_ will never be free again. You belong to us."

"Like hell I do!" Sheppard shot up, flinging his seat aside.

Mulder's eyes grew furious. He nodded to his goons, who instantly jammed Sheppard back into his seat. Two twisted his left arm behind his back, the other two pulled his right arm forward, and banged it several times on the table. Sheppard clenched his right fist, and struggled to free himself. Mulder slammed the butt of Sheppard's own P90 against his forehead twice, opening a long, ragged gash. Sheppard stifled a groan through gritted teeth.

Rodney watched in horror as blood trickled down either side of his team leader's left eye, forming rivulets on his cheek and down the side of his nose. Sheppard sucked in his lips, either in pain or to avoid imbibing his own body fluid. Two men began punching his face, the third tried in vain to force his fist open. The fourth tried pressing and banging his face into the table, but still that stubborn fist would not open. Rodney suppressed the urge to peek through his fingers.

"Flip him over."

"Go. To. Hell!" Sheppard growled as he fought two more goons, who made short shrift of landing him on his back.

"Already there!" cried Mulder, and as two goons held Sheppard's head still, he poured a flagon of rotgut over his face. Sheppard thrashed, trying to avoid the downpour. Oh, god! He choked and spluttered, then swallowed several gulps in between struggling to catch his breath. There was no avoiding it. This was waterboarding. Only with alcohol. Was there even such a thing as boozeboarding? Rodney felt himself sink.

"Damn rotgut… looks like water… tastes like laced coke. You give this… to… your pregnant women? To your kids?"

Rodney watched through increasingly blurred vision, trying to keep himself as small and insignificant as possible. He watched through his fingers after all as Sheppard's face twitched and turned red as if with some internal battle he was clearly in grave danger of losing. His mouth quivered, and his neck muscles corded. Perhaps sensing Sheppard's imminent defeat, Mulder gestured for his goons to pull Sheppard's arms away from his body. Sheppard bucked and kicked, then drew his knees up with a groan as he received several vicious blows to his gut. Two more goons pinned his legs down.

Either Sheppard's guard had dropped or he'd been weakened, as his right fist was finally forced open. Mulder slammed the paperweight into Sheppard's palm. Mulder watched with glee just as Rodney watched in terror as Sheppard's eyes rolled and his eyelids fluttered. Sheppard was losing. Losing what?

_Hold the damn thing, Sheppard. What's the big deal? You can always throw it afterwards!_ Rodney took another gulp. He didn't know what else to do.

The paperweight grew translucent, then began to glow from within, a soft pearlescent aqua. Rodney drained his mug. Then the paperweight slash ATA gene detector started screaming like a telepathic Lantian whale, and for a fleeting moment, Rodney was stone cold sober. The goons let go of Sheppard, and he rolled onto his front, slumped back into his seat, and rested his forehead on the table, panting.

"Noooo… " he cried, and he banged his head down, leaving a bloody smear on the wood.

oooOOOooo


	5. Chapter 5

A/N – thought I might as well post some whumpy 'chapters' in rapid succession to make up for the lack of whump in the first three. Might not be able to post again until after the w/e. Anyway, here's hoping you like the story so far! And I haven't even begun to seriously whump Shep. Tee hee. Luffs my Sheppy. *sigh*

oooOOOooo

"Knew it! You are the Lantian Ancient with a price on his head. Hard to mistake those ears and that hair. Now you must start the contraption. Won't ask you twice."

Sheppard looked up groggily from his precarious perch on his seat. "Won't… ask me twice, huh? No, I'm not a… 'Lantian Ancient', and no, I don't… start up contraptions. Ask me nicely, and… I might take… a look at it for you. Got a wrench? Jackhammer? Wrecking ball?" Then he slid to the floor, and lay there, panting, in a Sheppardy puddle of goo.

By now, Rodney was reeling. _Start the contraption? Not 'Activate the Ancient device or perish'? _He wondered when that one would rear its ugly head. And in the Boonies. Who'd'a thunk it. _And whatever happened to the whole weapons thing? _Just then, the room decided to spin. Rodney gripped the edge of the table to steady himself. He drew in several deep breaths in an abortive attempt to remain upright. He thought he heard a feral grunt. _Ronon? Did he and Teyla double back? Or have they been recaptured? Oh, nonononono… _

He looked towards a window, and thought he might have glimpsed those familiar dreadlocks. The sudden movement tipped him off balance as the room swayed, and he slid from his seat onto the sawdust-strewn floor. Sawdust. What was it Sheppard said about sawdust? Sawdust. Saw. Dust. 'Potted' plants. Sheppard. Weapons. Paperweights. Rotgut. Weapons. Shlurm. He thought he'd seen a pear-shaped paperweight, but decided it had to be a hand grenade instead. This was about weapons. Wasn't it? Not pears. Pears for weapons. Trade. Rodney's thoughts swirled and fragmented. His last thoughts before losing consciousness were of him and Sheppard being dragged away by the handles of their tac vests.

Damn Sheppard and his stubborn streak. All he had to do was hand over a meager handful of weapons, but, _nooo_, he had to sit down at the bargaining table and attempt to salvage the situation. And for what? Protocol? Screw protocol. At the rate these drunks were going, they would have run out of ammo before the team had gotten back to the gate. The natives would have been a-whoopin' an' a-hollerin' an' a-firin' into the air like Hollywood Injuns in some historically dishonest '50s Western. At least, that's how he remembered it. It was all a little fuzzy, hangover notwithstanding. How much did he have to drink? Just the one mugful. Then again, he knew himself to be a lightweight. Like Sheppard. Sheppard? _Sheppard!_

"Sheppard!"

No Sheppard. _Where was he?_ He fumbled for him, and then he remembered. _Oh, nonononono!_ They had come for him while he, Rodney, had selfishly nursed a hangover. Two brutes had dragged him away, leaving Rodney alone with disjointed, paralyzing thoughts.

With his watch gone, Rodney marked the passage of time by the number of rumbles in his stomach - which was about as useful as a dandelion clock - that and the fact the sun had gone from zenith to nadir. It was twilight when they dumped Sheppard just inside the doorway, even more bruised and battered. Rodney helped him over to their designated sorry pile of straw. He waited for him to say something. Sheppard just sat staring at him, glassy-eyed. At him? No, through him. Sheppard was out of it.

"Gonna catch me… some zeds, McKay. Hit the hay." Sheppard attempted a snicker, then listed slightly. He frowned, then slumped slowly, almost imperceptively, clockwise.

"_Zees_, Sheppard. _Zees_. Not zeds. That's over-compensation. Sheppard? John? Are you still with me?"

"Unh? Zees. Yeah. Just… kidding around."

" 'Kidding around'? Dumb yank."

"Canuck."

"Jock."

"Geek. R-Rodney? I don't think I - " and Sheppard promptly keeled over, and lay there, trembling.

"Oh, nonononono. John? Wake up? What happened?"

"Whuh? Oh. Happened? Nothing much. The u-u-usual. Same dumb demands. Just… hurts more. Nowhere left… to bruise up." Sheppard took a few deep breaths. "Hey, don't look... so worried, McKay. They punch and kick... like pussies." He flashed a grimace and tried to lift himself onto one shaky elbow but his arm slid from under him.

_Like that makes it okay?_ Rodney scanned Sheppard's prone, almost bare body and winced. They had been stripped down to their boxers, so every injury was apparent in not-so-glorious Technicolor. Sheppard's face, neck and torso were already so bruised, he might as well be turning into an iratus bug all over again. And there were angry welts on the back of his legs and the soles of his feet. Strap marks. He fervently hoped that Ronon and Teyla had made it back to Atlantis. Sheppard was all messed up. This clearly couldn't go on for days. He tried to block out thoughts of glimpsing dark dreadlocks through a window. Had Ronon and Teyla been captured? If only there were a way Rodney could buy more time for them both. But, they hadn't come for him, just Sheppard. So far, so bad. They might just run out of Sheppard to mash to a pulp and eye him greedily. Given his low pain threshold, he wasn't sure he was up to it. But he had to be. For Sheppard's sake. And he didn't even know what the stakes were. He suspected there was something else going on other than the dastardly 'hand over your weapons or perish'. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. It all became a blur after - well, it all became a blur.

For several minutes, Rodney merely squatted beside Sheppard, rocking and cleaning his nails nervously as he stared at him, not knowing what to do. He looked around, feeling more like a frightened child than a grown man. The he spied a figure through a gap in the wall. It was a boy. A scrawny, dismorphic, dirty-blond pre-teen with small, rheumy eyes set too far apart, a broad mouth and seriously suspect dentition. He remembered seeing this boy back at the inn. Rodney leapt up.

"Are you Gary? Gary Picard Mulder?" _Close_ _enough_.

"Huh yuh."

"I take it you mean 'uh huh' or even 'huck yuck'. Alrighty then. Good. My friend here, he's seriously injured." _Thanks to your father_. "Could you bring food and water? Blankets? Please?" Rodney slapped on his most amicable smile usually reserved for his laptop. He made sure his smile was especially toothy and rugrat-friendly.

"Huh?"

"Do you feed the pigs?" _Maintain toothy, rugrat-friendly grin._

"Huh?"

"The hogs, the swine, the critters. Do you feed them?" _Continue with toothy, rugrat-friendly grin. Add gritted teeth and raised eyebrows. Control urge to shake rugrat._

"Huh yuh."

_Phew. Drop award-winning yet jaw-breaking grin. _"Listen, boy. As much as I would love to duel banjos with you - we. Need. Food. And water. Mouth open skywards to straw-filtered rainwater doesn't quite cut it." Rodney jabbed a forefinger towards the roof. "I can give you… " _Oh, nonononono. _He patted himself down. _No tac vest equals no power bars and no chocolate which in turn equals no bribe! _"I mean, I can _get_ you some candy. I promise. Scout's honor, and all that. Yummy candy. Treats. Sweets. Sweetmeats. The best. Would you like that?"

"Huh yuh!" The boy promptly smirked inanely, and hopped on the spot.

"You trust me?" _Re-establish winning yet jaw-breaking grin. Flutter eyelashes._

"Huh yuh!"

"Go!"

"Wheeee!"

Rodney watched through the gap as Gary scurried off. He strained to see if he actually ran home or ran off to play. _Hang on, Sheppard. Help is on its way._ Rodney couldn't tear himself away from the wall. Staring through the gap meant he didn't have to look back at Sheppard doing his roadkill impression. He had visions of these people slapping ninety-eight percent lean Sheppard-burgers on a grill, and then - himself roasting on a spit, basting in his own fat, crisping and curling away, his chitlins 'n' scratchins thrown to the dogs. He shook off inane thoughts, and remembered that livestock was plentiful, as was fresh fruit. Fruit. Supergrapefruit. Blue pears. What was it about blue pears? Was that what they had come for? Finally, the boy returned, lugging a ragged bundle. Rodney was grateful for the timely wrench out of his own befuddled musings.

"Sheppard! Sheppard! Zombie rugrat at twelve o'clock," he whispered hoarsely.

"'S'tha'th'time?"

Rodney permitted himself an exasperated eye roll.

The boy posted the contents through the gap one by one; canteens of what Rodney hoped was water and not shlurm - okay, rotgut - _blast you, Sheppard!_ - chunks of bread, dried fruit and mystery meat jerky. He even posted the rag itself. Then he fed through two woolen blankets. Rodney snatched the other ends and pulled them, rebundled the swag, and scuttled over to his friend.

"Yes, Sheppard, that _is_ the time. Feeding time. At the zoo. The kid from Deliverance brought food and water. Aand… shlurm. Okay, rotgut. Rotgut. Rot. Gut. Seriously, Sheppard, why is it you get to name everything?"

"Ford?"

"No, Ford is not here. I am. You're stuck with me. Get over it."

"Where'd... Ford go?"

"Ford is long dead, Sheppard."

"No! Ford is… MIA. Not dr'nk'n anym'r… rotgut." Rodney watched him haul himself up to a precarious sitting position, and wipe his forearm across his face.

"No, but we can get you cleaned up, prevent infection and all that."

"I'm good. It's just... a bruisin'. I was cruisin' for it."

"Oh, you are a wit."

"Only half." Sheppard attempted a chuckle at his own inane joke.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, I - " and Sheppard broke into a coughing fit instead, and looked up at Rodney sheepishly. "Ow, that hurt."

"Serves you right for trying to be clever. Well, you're way out of your league. 'Cruisin' for a bruisin', eh? Seriously, Sheppard, what's gotten into you? Can't you just play along for once?" Rodney stared at him. He was suddenly curious. "There's something you're not telling me." Rodney thrust his bottom lip out petulantly.

"I pissed them off."

"There's more to it than that."

"They pissed me off."

"You don't say. Anyway, eat something."

Sheppard merely winced. "I'm good. Maybe later. Lay off the rotgut, McKay."

"I was just uncorking the flagon with my teeth. No bottle opener. Hello? Didn't come with room service, oddly enough. Sheppard? What is it you are not telling me? Some crusade of yours? Care to share?" _With your best friend? Finally? Eh? Eh?_

Sheppard sank to the floor and rolled over, facing away from him. He inhaled deeply and let out a heavy sigh. Rodney knew enough about the enigma that was his best friend to know that that was his cue to quit prying. Until much later when Sheppard tossed and turned and sat bolt upright, screaming.

"Go to Hell!" then, "Pour it away! Please… "

Rodney chivvied a groggy Sheppard into sidling over to a denser patch of straw, and spent what felt like an eternity if not half the night settling him down again, making soothing noises he half-remembered Jeannie using on Madeline - Madeline? No matter - and cooing sounds he vaguely remembered from long ago when he was Mer. He stroked his battered friend's face, reassuring him with hummed equations, and was surprised to find his fingers come away wet from touching his cheek.

He touched his own cheek. Wet, too. Funny, that. Rodney hummed pi to the tune of a Sesame Street-style alphabet song, more for his own reassurance than for Sheppard's.

"Three point one four one five nine, two six five three five eight nine…. " _It rhymes!_

"You're being… disturbing again, M-McKay," whispered Sheppard.

"Seven nine three, two three eight, four six two, six four three." _Dammit, it stopped rhyming_. "Okay I'll shut up now. Get some sleep."

"Sounds... like a plan."

But Rodney McKay couldn't sleep. Something niggled at him, keeping his mind restless.

oooOOOooo


	6. Chapter 6

A/N - Vague references to both Remnants and Vegas - if you haven't seen either, you won't even know they're there. If you have seen them, you could always play 'spot the references' and get back to me. Prizes include ready-whumped Shep clones in varying states of undress. Oh, hell, yeah... XD

oooOOOooo

Sometime around dawn, Rodney prodded Sheppard awake. Sheppard hauled himself upright, and scrubbed his face with a sniff. "Unh? Do I have concussion?" More sniffing and snorting. And much scrabbling.

"There's definitely something you're not telling me. Who was it, Sheppard? Who was the lush? Hm? Was it your uncle? Your grandfather? Your second cousin twice removed? Your… dad?" _Stay awake, don't leave me here all alone. _"Come on, Johnny Boy, spill the - "

"Don't call me that! Ever again!" Sheppard raised a threatening forefinger, but Rodney had seen it all before. Talk about your lethal weapon. Not.

"Yes, you have a forefinger, and you're not afraid to use it. Seriously, what's with you?" Now he really was pushing.

"Kolya. He - got to me. Ah, forget it."

"Kolya? He's been dead for years! You're addled, Sheppard." Rodney snorted.

"Yeah, that's me. Addled. Par for the course, huh?" Sheppard looked up, sheepishly.

"You never answered my question."

"Which. One."

"Funny har har."

Sheppard frowned, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and rolled his head with a sigh. Rodney waited for him to regain his composure.

"I had a buddy in Afghanistan," he began softly. "She was a medic. Her chopper went down behind enemy lines. She - was captured… and raped by the Taliban." His voice caught, and Rodney gasped. _Revelation. A rarity._

"What was her name? Not that it's relevant or that I'm good at remembering names or anything." Rodney flapped his left hand in dismissal.

Sheppard gave a shake of his head. Well, more like a tic, really. Blink and you'd miss it. Rodney realized that this would be too much intimate detail to impart, not in one sitting. He suspected that not even Heightmeyer could have wrenched this much information out of him. Ever. He suddenly felt privileged. Like a true best friend. He found himself wriggling his rump into the straw, sitting Indian style to hear Sheppard out, feeling every inch the rambunctious kindergartner before a jaded storyteller with one eye on the clock. Sheppard scrubbed his face, and scratched the side of his head in one oddly fluid movement, then rested his elbows on his knees, his head on his forearms.

"Why am I telling you any of this?" Sheppard asked, looking up, his eyes almost begging for an explanation.

"I - " _really don't know_." I don't think_ -_ " _I should be wringing any more out of you. _"You don't have to - " _pour your soul out._ Yet, at the same time, Rodney was morbidly curious. Perhaps his face expressed as much, or perhaps he just looked like a big happy kid, for Sheppard went on.

"We went out, just the two of us, for a drink one evening, after I - after her rescue. To celebrate, y'know? That's when she told me she was pregnant. By them. Her fiancé dumped her. He was a loser anyways. She - deserved better than him." Sheppard scrubbed a hand across his face. "That- That night, that was the start of her bingeing big time to get rid of the kid. She wouldn't tell anyone. Not even her parents. Just me. Lucky me, huh?" Sheppard's voice faltered. " I… tried to stop her, but she wouldn't listen. It didn't work. The kid, he - he came out wrong, y'know? Fetal alcohol syndrome, they called it. She had the little guy adopted."

"Do you know what became of her?"

Rodney watched as his friend paused, then swallowed hard. Sheppard shrugged, and looked away. Rodney waited. When no further information was forthcoming, he deemed it time to lug his friend back to their nest. Sheppard glared. He clearly didn't care to move, like one patch of hay was pretty much as good as another, but Rodney insisted, and guided him as they staggered together to the marginally softer, cleaner bedding Rodney had prepared for them both.

Sheppard groaned as Rodney plunked him down. Rodney fumbled with the blankets, and found himself shaking. It was hard to work out quite how to cover his team leader. He hesitantly wafted a blanket, and felt like a faint-hearted toreador after the matador had already gone in for the kill. Finally, he settled for draping the blanket over Sheppard's legs, leaving him to summon the energy to cover himself further as he saw fit.

"Cirrhosis of the liver some years later, so I heard."

"Oh, God, John. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, me too. Garrek could have been her kid."

Rodney heard his friend sniff a few times, and judging by the sound effects and telegraphed movement, Sheppard blew his nose in his fingers, and flung the offensive matter against the far wall.

_Ew, gross_, thought Rodney, but he decided not to voice it.

oooOOOooo

They came for Sheppard again later that day. They dumped Sheppard. Same old. This time, Sheppard staggered in through the doorway, and sidled with his back to the wall towards their personal piece of prime barnyard real estate.

Location, location, location.

Sheppard groped his way along, his long legs buckling occasionally.

"Cease and desist with the slime angels, Sheppard."

"Unh?"

"You're meandering like a drunken crab along a grimy stone wall. Flailing your arms willynilly. Hence 'slime angel'? Hello? And - you look all glassy-eyed. You're creeping me out."

"Whuh?"

Now, Rodney knew he wasn't the most astute person in the galaxy, and that Sheppard was incorrigibly stoical and good at hiding his pain and anguish, and all that, but - Sheppard was reeling. His face - oh, God - his face! The normal skin on his face was pale and blotchy. The gash on his forehead delivered by his own P90 had opened up. His breath sounded ragged. And now he was hyperventilating, alternately scrunching up his eyes and opening them wide. That's when Rodney's stomach finally churned.

_Nonononono, don't you dare die on me, John!_

"John!"

Rodney made a move towards him even as Sheppard tried in vain to maintain a death grip on the wall behind him. Just then Rodney realized a truth. Several truths. Several truths of galaxy-shattering import. Of Rodney-shattering import.

One Dr Meredith Rodney McKay loved one messy-haired, skinny-assed Lt. Col. John Sheppard.

"Rodney… "

And one shaggy-haired, snarly Specialist Ronon Dex.

"Rodney… "

And one graceful, striking warrior princess, Teyla Emmagan.

"Rod-ney?"

And even one scraggy, chittering Czech scientist, Radek Zelenka.

"Rodney!"

"What? Oh. I'm right here, John."

"Can… "

"Can I what?"

"Can you… "

"Can. I. What?"

'Can... you catch… "

"Catch? You're asking me if I can catch? Of course I can catch! Can I catch what? A ball? Chicks? Fish? STDs? Crabs? Rabies? Malaria? Cholera? Kirsan fever? Hives? Aids? What?"

"M-Me… "

And with a sharp intake of breath, one messy-haired, skinny-assed Lt. Col. John Sheppard pitched forward, an agonized expression on his face, just as one brilliant and reasonably buff Dr Meredith Rodney McKay PhD yadda yadda yadda was ready and willing to catch him.

When Rodney caught Sheppard, instinct and self-preservation kicked in. Rodney skillfully avoided landing flat on his back by spinning Sheppard around and unwittingly using him as a soft landing. Sheppard screamed, Rodney leapt up, and stared down in horror as his friend arched his back, wide-eyed, his hands clawed and white-knuckled. Rodney had a flashback to the iratus bug incident, and to a grotesque Madame Tussaud's exhibit, both of which he'd really rather had stayed buried in the sicker, darker recesses of his otherwise genius mind. Sheppard flipped over onto his stomach, gasping and flailing like a landed fish.

Rodney had failed his friend, and had possibly even made things worse. _Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry…_ And then he saw…

"Sheppard. Your back!"

"Unh? Oh, yeah. I'm b-back." Sheppard's eyes were alternately glazing over or rolling in his head. "Yeah, I'm back. I think."

"No, your back - it's a mess."And indeed it was. "They whipped you? That is just plain sick."

_Some best friend I am. You landed on your back with me on top_.

Rodney knelt beside Sheppard, and steeled himself to cleanse his friend's bloodied back with his makeshift alcohol wipes. With shaking hands, he tore strips from the ragged bundle, bunched them up and poured the rotgut into the center. The forty or so lash marks were raised and already weeping. Oh, God, this was obscene. The marks stretched from his right shoulder to his lower back, the heaviest concentration on his right flank. He even had raw, weeping rope burns around his wrists.

"Kicking… and punching… is... is... isn't?"

"Isn't what?"

"S-Sick."

"This whole planet is sick. I'm - cleaning your wrists first. Brace yourself. This might sting a bit." Rodney crouched besides John's prone form, and lifted his limp left arm onto his lap. He gingerly began to dab rotgut-soaked rag to the injuries around his raw wrists. Sheppard began to squirm and cringe, and grunt. The grunt became a groan, the groan became a growl. Despite Sheppard's squirming, Rodney persisted until both wrists were cleaned up to his satisfaction.

"St-Stop! Please… Use… water… Use w- "

Sheppard tucked his head into the crook of his right arm, and stifled a scream, his legs scrabbling in the dirt. Rodney froze at that moment, unable to continue through a blur of tears. He was grateful that Sheppard chose that moment to pass out. Now came the tougher job. He tenderly dabbed his friend's back first with the rotgut-soaked rag, then wrung the rag out in some water. He persisted, ignoring the endless flinching and moaning and quivering.

"This is for your own good, Sheppard." _Cruel to be kind_, thought Rodney, but he felt like a total bastard. With a sigh, he spent the next twenty minutes or so painstakingly working his way around his friend's abused body. He felt himself starting to shake all over with the enormity of what he had just done to him in order to help prevent infection.

_Go, me._

Rodney dragged an unconscious Sheppard by his bony ankles for want of another means of moving him into a weak yet welcome patch of sunlight streaming in through the broken thatch. He spent the better part of the day dragging Sheppard around, keeping him always in the sunny patch to get him warm and dry and healed.

Rodney sat nearby, and occasionally napped next to him. Snuggling up to him was no longer an option. When the sun went down, he dragged his friend back to the straw, and heaved his body part way over his own chest. He could at least warm Sheppard's front if not his back. Perhaps, too, his friend would find comfort in a heartbeat.

_I'm not cut out for this_, he thought, but he had to be.

oooOOOooo


	7. Chapter 7

A/N - in case you're wondering why fetal alcohol syndrome, a very distant relative of mine who didn't know where babies come from found herself very pregnant and very out of wedlock - yes, many, many moons ago. Surely, women in Western society aren't that naïve these days - and did what she could to get rid of the baby. I believe it might have included jumping off tables, but it certainly included consuming copious amounts of alcohol. I'm both relieved and pleased to inform you that this was not a blood relative, but related by marriage only. Said baby is now in his late 50s, and resembles the baby Lucius 'saved' in Irresistible. 'Nuff said.

Ah, catharsis...

oooOOOooo

Three days! They'd been left alone for three whole days! Must've been some hootenanny. Halleluyah.

Rodney had heard the squeals of twosomes, threesomes and moresomes in flagrante delicto right outside their prison. He stuck his finger in one ear only, the other ear feeding his greedy imagination. The sound effects were decidedly better than his downloaded internet porn, and Rodney found himself enjoying the interlude. However, he could have done without the post-binge retching noises, and the inordinately screechy music, thank you so very, very much.

When he first heard the music start up, he suspected the villagers might be cat torturers as well as - _No, not going there_. _Let's just enjoy the respite, John. _Rodney scuttled over to Sheppard, dripped some water into his half-open mouth, then gently dabbed his injuries with a damp rag. He willed him to wake up, to not leave him all alone, yet at the same time he was grateful for healing sleep. _This isn't the infirmary, but I hope I'm doing some good_, he thought, as he worked his way around Sheppard's abused body once more as part of the morning's ablutions. As for a semblance of food, it and water were being brought sporadically by Gary the Deliverance Kid, so all in all, life wasn't that bad.

Rodney soon realized quite how low his standards had dropped in the course of a week. Hm. No, he was grateful for small mercies. Usually he scoffed at the little things in life, and even took luxuries for granted. Like bathing. Rodney knew he would kill for a scented, candlelit bubble bath with his laptop to hand, and would even settle for a dunking in a pig trough or even a hosing down. He had spent the last three days keeping Sheppard clean, and apart from washing his hands had completely forgotten about his own hygiene. Go figure.

Meanwhile, they had finally been able to warm up. In fact, if they'd kept their tee shirts, they would have stripped them off themselves by now. Or rather, he would have stripped his own off and helped Sheppard off with his. What was left of it, that is. Sheppard's tee was little more than a rag.

And yet -

The sun was blazing through the myriad gaps in the stonework. Birds were on the wing, tweeting away merrily and doing whatever it is birds on the wing do while they tweet away merrily - and yea, there was much bleating and mooing and neighing and quacking and clucking to be had by all. Rodney didn't feel the need to pen his poetic urges, but he did imagine a delightful pastoral scene just beyond his field of vision to match the delectable barnyard aroma and the general din. Rodney sat a while in a welcome patch of sunlight, and felt oddly grateful for his mud and grime sunscreen.

oooOOOooo

Later that morning, a miracle happened. Sheppard opened his eyes, mumbled for Rodney, and smiled. It was one of his sleepy 'I'm good' smiles, and his eyes were mere slits, but it was better than nothing. Sheppard yawned, and stretched albeit with a grunt and a grimace, and slowly, painstakingly, hauled himself upright. He shook out any stiffness in his arms, stretched those long legs of his, and rolled his shoulders tentatively to test motion in his back.

After a quick swig of water and a bite or two of an appley something or other and some mystery meat jerky, Sheppard snapped back into soldier mode, pacing their prison, checking for a means of escape. His gait, Rodney noticed with a wince, was stiff. The welts on his back had calmed down considerably, looking more puce than livid. Rodney watched in awe as his tough friend systematically kneed and elbowed and shouldered the stone wall, but it refused to budge. Sheppard tried scaling the stones, but couldn't get any hand- or footholds. Sheppard winced once or twice himself, but Rodney didn't hear a single complaint from him.

_Three whole days_, he thought. After four days of hell for Sheppard. Yet, they were both still alive. Even if Ronon and Teyla hadn't made it back to Atlantis, they would at least be missed by now. Woolsey would be wondering what had happened to them all. Rescue was surely at hand!

oooOOOooo

"We must assemble a team immediately, Mr Woolsey. These people - they are - depraved."

Richard Woolsey studied Teyla as she padded silently around his office, her eyes desperately scanning the room as if seeking a respite from an unknown source that would never be forthcoming. He was keenly aware that this was most uncharacteristic of the normally stoical Athosian. The set of her body was tense, her muscles taut even as she intermittently attempted to assume a benign stance.

Dick watched Ronon Dex pace and growl like a zoo animal yearning to be free, occasionally stopping to rock on the balls of his feet. For a big man, Dex was undeniably graceful, like a prowling lion beside the cheetah that was Teyla. That would make John Sheppard a black panther, he mused, and Rodney McKay - more of a beached whale. Out of his element. That was fairly obvious to everyone but John Sheppard.

Dick knew that he was excellent at reading people; he was a veteran if not inveterate people watcher. He was amenable, empathic and intuitive - it just didn't always come across as he hoped. Still, his intuition afforded him this position, whether or not the IOA and the SGC and TPTB really understood the whys and wherefores of how he had become and had remained the permanent commander of the Atlantis expedition. _He_ knew why. And wherefore. He _cared._ He _understood._ And that alone blazed like a mighty glowing beacon with accompanying curlicue neon letters through all the red tape and brown-nosing and bull all the way up to the President himself. If he were the only one who cared and understood, then so be it; it was lonely at the top. Ah, well. Back to being the Boss Guy with a stick up his behind.

"That was vehement, coming from you, Miss Emmagan." _There is more to your story_, he thought. "Your take on the situation, Mr Dex?"

Ronon shuffled uncomfortably. "They stink."

"Literally or figuratively?" _Ah, that was uncalled for_.

Ronon Dex leaned over to look him in the eye.

"Both."

"Right. Fill me in, if you would. Both of you. Mr Dex?"

Ronon shifted again. Dick wondered if the man shouldn't have been in possession of four legs rather than two, or at least loping arms longer than his already overly long legs, then conceded that he was being decidedly ungenerous.

"They wanted to trade weapons for booze. Sheppard wouldn't. We ran. Sheppard's orders. They couldn't catch up with us or even shoot straight. Too fucking drunk. We doubled back. Saw what they were doing to Sheppard. There were too many of them for us to attempt a rescue."

"Miss Emmagan?"

"That is precisely what happened."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"As much as I would wish to provide greater detail of what transpired on PX4-779, I believe we must leave immediately. I fear we might already be too late. It took us the full allotted seven days of our mission just to get back to Atlantis in an extremely roundabout manner, with very many pursuers to shake off." She glanced at her severely grazed forearms, and at the livid bruise gracing the length of her remaining team-mate's right cheekbone and jawline. Teyla tenderly touched her own cheek, and winced. Dick winced, too.

"Colonel Sheppard had a plan, but I do not think it worked in his favor. We waited, but he and Dr McKay failed to join us. We doubled back, and saw - Please, Mr Woolsey!"

"That was all I needed to hear. I look forward to your more detailed reports later." Dick shot Ronon a knowing look, then clicked on his earpiece.

"Major Lorne, please assemble several teams. This will be a rescue or recovery mission." He nodded ineffectually.

One tinny response later, and 'Operation Rescue Sheppard and/or McKay or At Least Bring Home Their Cold Dead Bodies' was a go.

Teyla placed her hand gently on his upper arm, her eyes blazing.

"Please include Dr Beckett, myself and Ronon," she said softly.

"It goes without saying, Miss Emmagan. _Teyla_, if I may be so bold_._ You are cleared to leave with the _major_, despite your injuries, which appear to be _minor._" Dick chuckled. Then frowned. And cleared his throat. "Yes. Quite. Our good doctor can patch you both up on the way. I have surmised that you both sustained little more than field-treatable flesh wounds."

Teyla bowed her head. Was that an affirmative nod or a contrite nod? He wondered.

"Miss Emmagan, is there something else you wish to tell me?"

"It is my fault that it came to this. It was I who made initial contact with these people."

"I see. And yet Colonel Sheppard clearly trusted your judgment, as would I have done. Do not berate yourself."

He stepped forward. "Mr Dex?"

"Yup?"

"In future, please refrain from the use of colorful language in front of your superiors."

Dick watched as ex-Specialist Ronon Dex's eyes became dark and unfathomable as he took his leave. _Way to go, Dicky, _he thought to himself. _This is a good man. A loyal man. An honest man. There are no sides to him. Memo to self: self - take Dale Carnegie refresher classes asap. Refrain from alienating the aliens. _

He permitted himself one more self-indulgent chuckle at his own ready wit.

oooOOOooo

Gary came later that day. This time, he wasn't alone. Like some mass infestation, each gap suddenly crawled with an eerily identical rugrat.

"Oh, god! It's the Midwich Cuckoos," Rodney muttered grimly. "Go! Shoo! Scoot! Scram! Too many of you. You'll draw attention to us! We need a break!" _No, Sheppard needs a longer break…_

"Beat it! Skedaddle! Amscray?"

The Midwich Cuckoos twittered. Rodney suspected that Gary, however, wasn't entirely happy. The boy seemed agitated, but as he wasn't overly verbal, Rodney didn't bother to ask him why. Rodney was surprised at himself, as he usually could rarely read adults let alone rugrats. He doubted his insight into rugrattery would be sustainable. However, he'd settle for choppy right now. Why would Gary be this upset? Unless he and Sheppard were pets he didn't care to share. A project. Or maybe the little guy even actually _cared._

Snickering, the rugrats began to post various items through the gap, most of it useless. Odd bits of clothing, a spoon or two, broken wooden toys, more canteens of water thankfully, and even one of rotgut. He saw one kid take a swig. Backwash. That was just so wrong on so many levels. Thoughts of disfiguring diseases popped into his head, with symptoms too hideous to contemplate and names too long to remember. Then, Sheppard limped over to a gap, only to have a beanpole of a boy spit in his face.

"My pappy says you won't make the contraption work for us." Beanpole looked slightly alarmed at his own bravado, and took a step backwards.

Sheppard wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand, then scrubbed his wet hand on his ragged boxers, wiping the spittle away. Rodney decided right then and there that humans should spontaneously generate as adults, thus bypassing the larval stage.

Alarm bells rang. So, it had come down to the gene thing. No wonder they were still beating on Sheppard. It was no longer about weapons. When had that happened? Why hadn't he grilled Sheppard about what was really going on? Oh, that's right. Sheppard was already being grilled, and he didn't want to add to his misery. He was Sheppard's refuge. That, and the fact that he really didn't want to know too much in case… but - Sheppard wouldn't make some contraption work? What was with that?

"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod - I have the gene, too!"

"Keep your mouth shut, McKay." Sheppard said through gritted teeth. "So help me, I'll - " He bunched up a fist and slammed it into a wall. "Ghaah, where's the rotgut," he muttered as he walked away flexing his fingers, and shaking out the pain. As he passed a contrite Rodney, he frowned and growled out, "He. Heard. You."

The Midwich Cuckoos had flitted away, except one. Gary. And he began to sob.

oooOOOooo


	8. Chapter 8

A/N - Ah, not a lot of reviews, but it's quite heartwarming/reassuring to be put on story alert and/or fave author/author alert for so many readers. Oh, you'll spot the title in this chapter, although I feel a better title coming on. Grr. Oh, well. What's done is done. Back to whumping our boy… XD Such a chore... ;-p

Remember, Shep whump peeps - reviews/feedback/pat on head/one teensy little emoticon - it's all good! I'm hoping there is a reasonable balance between humor and angst. Any thoughts? :-D

oooOOOooo

They sat in a miserable squat opposite each other. Rodney couldn't even begin to broach the silence between them. He tried to find something to say, but nothing came out beyond the odd mumble or whimper, and nothing at all came out of Sheppard's pursed lips, yet his expressive eyes said everything.

_Now we're both screwed,_ they said_. _

_I know_, thought Rodney.

_Can you handle it?_ they said.

_I'll try_, he thought.

Sheppard shrugged, and fixed Rodney with those piercing hazel eyes.

_Help will come soon,_ his eyes said, but Rodney also saw the sorrow in them. Then Sheppard bowed his head, and scratched the back of his neck. Rodney was certain by now that not even Sheppard could stay positive.

Rodney forced himself to start a conversation, taciturn Sheppard notwithstanding.

"It was a balmy summer's day, quite devoid of ravens and other portents of doom when my dear mother finally, selflessly decided to shuffle off this mortal coil after a protracted, melodramatic illness. All that was missing were the paparazzi and a puff of green smoke."

He turned to Sheppard, who stared at the floor, brooding. Rodney sidled over to him, trying to at least bridge a physical gap between them. He could hear his friend's shallow breathing. "I said - "

"My mom died suddenly. It was an accident. I - it was my… I didn't mean… " and John Sheppard gingerly rolled onto his back, arms outstretched, as if he had just spread-eagled his soul for said ravens to peck at. Then he rested one arm over his eyes. Loss was a funny thing. Blessed release for one, demonic torment for the other. Was that why Sheppard felt the need to save everyone, while he, Rodney, remained unmoved and uncaring?

"The floor is filthy."

"My back still hurts. The cold floor, it's kinda soothing. Ow… jeez… "

"Lie on your front."

"They beat me, Rodney. Several times. Everywhere hurts." Rodney noticed that Sheppard had been running his hands through his hair. He thought that perhaps by now only his hair didn't hurt, and that was why he constantly ruffled it. As if to make contact with a part of his body that wasn't causing him agony.

"You look a mess, Sheppard. Your body has finally caught up with the state of your hair."

"I look a mess, huh?" Sheppard attempted a chuckle. "Hey, that's what Sheppards do best. You should see me when I'm off duty for more than a week. I go scruffy. Designer stubble - the works. I don't even bother combing my hair. Can you believe it?" Sheppard qualified his statement with a shaky thumbs up, then complied with Rodney's suggestion, and rolled onto his belly.

"Tigger."

"Whuh?"

"You are Tigger. Bouncy. I just realized it."

"I guess that makes you… Eeyore."

"Wrong! I… am Wol."

Sheppard chortled. "Who's Pooh?"

"Let me think." Rodney snapped his fingers several times. "I know! Lorne! Zelenka is Piglet." That raised a snort. "Woolsey is Rabbit."

"Teyla is Kanga, aand -"

"Torren is Roo!" they said in unison.

"What about Ronon? Can't miss out Ronon."

"He's a Heffalump. Who's the Woozle?"

"That's easy. Kavanagh."

"Him and Todd both. Hey, you been hanging around your niece or something?"

"Madeline? No, not really."

"Rodney?"

"What?"

"Your niece's name."

"What about it?"

"It's Madison."

"Seriously?"

"Like I'd kid around?"

"You so would."

"Not right now, no. Not in the mood."

"I'm scared, John."

"Yeah. I hear ya. I hear ya. Rodney?"

"Yes, John?"

"They're coming, buddy, and it sounds like they've doubled the guard."

"What are you doing, listening for vibrations now?"

" 'M resting, McKay."

"Wait! 'Doubled the guard'? That means… that means… oh, nononononono! I don't _do_ torture, Sheppard. I do scraping up after torture, but not the actual torture. I'm just as allergic to torture as I am to citrus, and - "

"That's why I kept you out of the loop for as long as I could," Sheppard replied through gritted teeth as he stood up shakily. Rodney caught a fleeting expression of regret on his friend's face.

"How? How did you keep me out of the loop? How?"

"Kept 'em talking. Asked the questions. "

"Eh?"

"Torture 101." Sheppard shrugged boyishly, then winced at the movement.

"What, they actually teach you that kind of stuff? You've got to be kidding me!" Rodney leapt up, gripped his friend's biceps, and shook him vigorously. Sheppard looked dazed, but, and he felt bad, but -

"I don't even do splinters, John. You know that!" Rodney could hear his own voice become high pitched. "They know I have the gene! I - I _skipped_ Torture 101!"

"Stay positive, now, Rodney. A rescue team will come. It's been about a week now. Even if Ronon and Teyla didn't make it back to Atlantis, I bought us some time. I kept 'em occupied. I kept 'em entertained. It won't come to that. Trust me."

"Yeah, trust you with _your_ life. You throw it away left and right."

"Whuh?"

"I'm the greatest genius in two galaxies as everybody knows. I'm also the biggest wuss, John… " _As_ _everybody_ _knows_...

"Remember this one thing," Sheppard rested both hands on his shoulders, and looked down at him earnestly, scanning his face frantically as if for the last time.

_Oh, godohgodohgodohgod. Life or death instructions_. "Tell me. I'm ready."

"I told 'em your name is Spongebob."

They were both frogmarched until Sheppard stumbled, clearly too weak to walk any further under his own steam. They dragged him the rest of the way. They were shoved into, what, a slaughterhouse? Smokehouse? Rodney had smelled this place on the way in. _Oh, we are sooo screwed… This is it. Period. The end. Maker, meet Sheppard and yours truly_. _At least, what's left of us…_

The slapping sound of their own bare feet on concrete echoed around the small, sparse building. It was chilly beyond belief, and Rodney could feel the hairs rising on his arms, which he rubbed in a feeble attempt to warm up. He glanced at Sheppard, who had to be feeling even colder than he was, given that he was a scrawny-assed bastard. Sheppard, however, suddenly radiated 'daytrip to the beach'.

_Defiant to the end, John._

And this was it; this was the end. Period.

In strode Mulder, followed by a handful of his heavier goons. Mulder settled into the single chair looking like he was about to watch a new release. He grinned at them both, and the goons looked either like they relished their discomfiture, or were looking forward to what they were about to inflict on them.

Gary scurried in looking like he was late for class, and stood dutifully beside his father. Talk about teaching your kid by example. The poor kid looked miserable. Even Rodney knew the boy should have been outside in the fresh air, kicking around a superdupergrapefruit, playing tag and climbing trees. Rodney knew that childhood ended all too soon. In some cases, such as his own, it never really even began.

Their escorts parked them in the center of the building, and signaled for them to stay. Rodney looked about him. The place reeked of blood and gore, murder and mayhem. Smoked fish hung nonchalantly from hooks. Hooks… He'd been there all of two minutes, and he was already close to confessing to stealing all of Jeannie's extra-special marbles, of sneaking into her bedroom and snapping her favorite doll's head off, and sticking it back on with flesh-colored band-aids, and sitting at the bottom of the stairs awaiting her wail of misery, his hand clapped over his mouth to stifle a snicker. He had pinged the bra of a hot, short-haired blonde in high school. That had earned him a slap. He'd once licked all the frosting off a cake, and blamed it on the dog, and the dog ran off shortly after a licking of another kind. No dog license, no find dog. He'd forgotten to feed and water the rabbit and it had died in his arms. (How he'd loved Snowball… ) He'd - just spotted the hook over a drain hole… the whips and switches and straps… the racks of implements for skinning and tanning, the -

Mulder backhanded his small son, sending him sprawling. The boy scuttled backwards, and cowered behind a hanging side of smoked mystery meat.

"You got a good kid there! You treat him nice now, ya hear!" Sheppard's eyes darkened, his body tense. He was clearly ready to lunge. That comment earned him a punch to the gut. Sheppard doubled over, whooped in a breath, then drew himself slowly back to full height. He wavered briefly, then steadied himself, and glowered at Mulder. Sheppard was seething.

_Gary was only trying to help. I - asked him to. He would have come anyway. Please don't hit him again,_ thought Rodney, but he was too afraid to voice it. He wasn't Sheppard. _I could never be Sheppard,_ he thought, and he felt his shoulders slump.

Meanwhile, Sheppard stared fixedly ahead of him, unblinking. His eyes were bright and fierce, like a cornered predator. Wide-eyed, Rodney scanned the room like, well, like a frightened rabbit, his eyes occasionally resting on the hook in the ceiling over the drain hole. He looked intently at Sheppard instead, as if by that act everything scary and nasty might just go away. If the truth be told, he relied on Sheppard. He'd been relying on him for a week now, relying on him just to be there, in any condition this side of deceased. He had arrogantly thought of himself as Sheppard's refuge, when it had in fact been the other way around all along.

"The boy is an imbecile. They're all imbeciles. They turn out wrong. Over and over again, they turn out wrong. It's a curse," Mulder stated flatly, but Rodney thought he detected a hint of sorrow.

"Like… I said… we… can help. They're suffering from… fetal alcohol syndrome. How many times… do I have… to tell you? You let… their mothers… drink that poison. Hell, you let _them_… drink… that poison!"

Rodney winced as Sheppard's back arched after a kidney punch, his battered body reeling. Sheppard was only just recovering from his last ordeal, and that blow just lifted several inches of parallel scabs, causing fresh blood to trickle down his back. Screw this! Rodney didn't want to be here. He wanted them both to be beamed out, direct into the Daedalus's infirmary, to be pampered and fussed over. He wanted food and a shower and warming blankets. He wanted coffee and morphine and Vicodin. He craved oblivion. Oh, and he wanted the same thing for Sheppard. Dizzy with hunger and fatigue and the whole emotional overload thing, he hallucinated a small, quaint Disney-like door in the wall a la Alice In Wonderland, beyond which lay a fairytale castle with gleaming spires.

Atlantis. Home.

"Can your doctors fix them?"

Sheppard paused, then answered with an emphatic hand gesture. "No."

"Then what do you offer?"

"Again, advice. Good will."

"We wanted your advanced weaponry, but the other two didn't come back with it. Neither did several of my men. I wonder what signal you gave them?"

Rodney remembered the first aid box ruse, and smiled inwardly.

"You sent...only two men." Sheppard proffered a sly smile.

"Do you still take me for a fool? And - " Mulder now circled Sheppard. "And we asked you nicely to activate the contraption."

Sheppard rolled his head, and grimaced. He was clearly unsteady on his feet, struggling to retain some semblance of control over his own body. His eyelids were drooping over glazed eyes, and his breathing was becoming more and more hitched. His body was beginning to betray him. Sheppard was visibly exhausted.

"Advanced… medical care and … preventive measures. For food. We could use some food. Those blue pears, maybe. Other stuff… you have... too much of. Like those... giant round things." Sheppard circled a forefinger in the air. "That… is our offer. It still stands. Take it… or leave it."

Mulder grabbed Sheppard's chin viciously, and pushed his head back, leaving white, finger-shaped pressure marks tipped with red half moons from ragged nails.

"_You _still stand. How?"

"I'm… stubborn. So… they tell me."

"You are an interesting man, Squidward," said Mulder, eyes narrowed but with a subtle smile. " Now, back to business."

_Squidward? Sheppard, you sonova… _

Sheppard stood there, legs apart, hands on hips in defiance. The man exuded a quiet dignity, even though technically, most of it had been stripped away. He was battered, filthy and sporting nothing but grubby, torn boxers with a heavily bloodstained waistband, but not once did he take his eyes off their captors. Rodney knew without a doubt that they'd never break him, and that he would undoubtedly protect him to the last.

_But,_ thought Rodney, _it's my turn to save you_… _but - how?_

It was about time he, Dr Meredith Rodney McKay PhD blah blah blah - what was it Teyla had said? - something about stepping up to the plate? Did he have it in him? What could he possibly do to earn them both a reprieve as he stood there petrified on shaky legs about to meet certain doom? He wasn't sure he cared for his own answer. Rodney felt himself beginning to zone out, and they hadn't even hit him yet.

oooOOOooo

A/N - Sorry to say, but, I once hallucinated a small doorway out of a lecture room... It was a weekend seminar on, uhm, sleep deprivation? Well, at least that's how I remember it. Snorfle.

Definition of a lecturer - someone who talks in other people's sleep. ;-D

oooOOOooo


	9. Chapter 9

A/N - still dragging out the whump. No apologies. This is _my_ fic, and I gets to whump Shep but _good_. Over and over again. Oh, hell, yeah… XD

Oh, btw, I'm not really on my high horse about alcohol consumption. Me being a total lush, 'n' all, that'd make me a hypocrite. Sheppard just doesn't drink. Not really. I just felt like exploring why that might be. And I do have a distant relative with fetal alcohol syndrome. That wasn't a whopper. I'm just exploiting the fact for the purposes of this fic.

oooOOOooo

_So this is how it had been,_ Rodney thought miserably. _Sheppard facing off against the bad guys alone, deflecting any attention away. From me. All the while refusing to activate some contraption. Why won't you give in? _Rodney scanned him from head to toe.

_You're a good friend, Squidward_, he thought wryly. _Would I do the same thing in your place?_

He wished he could emulate his friend just a little more, but he merely stood in an increasingly cowed cringe, shoulders hunched, knees bent, and hands instinctively placed protectively over his crotch, every last weak muscle about as tightly wound as an overstretched elastic band, his body merely a water balloon.

_Oh, nonononono - don't draw attention to the family jewels… _

He drew his hands apart very reluctantly, yet couldn't quite bear to not let them hover closely, just in case. Rodney was on the verge of doing the Charleston.

Yet what about Sheppard? What had they been asking him? Rodney realized he'd switched off throughout.

_Selfish, selfish, selfish!_

He moved in to just behind Sheppard, and peered out like a frightened child clutching his mother's skirt. No, like the miserable, useless coward he was. He was no help to Sheppard. None whatsoever. He'd tried to help him, but had only ended up hurting him instead. And now he was using his good buddy as a human shield. So much for stepping up to the plate. Rodney was oddly grateful that Teyla couldn't see him now. Not that she was his mother or anything, but still.

Sheppard stubbornly argued and labored some point, along the lines of no to weapons, no to ATA funny business. Why not give in and trick them later?

_Damn you, Sheppard!_

And - what contraption? It sounded like the chicken processor in Chicken Run.

_Chickens go in, pies come out. What kind of pies?_ _Not apple pies, that's for sure._

Rodney's macabre imagination was working overtime. Sheppard already looked like he'd fallen into the processor. How much worse could it get?

_And out the other end comes Sheppard's pie…_

What was it that was being bartered for? Was Sheppard even making any headway? Ambient sound fazed in and out. Sheppard appeared to be performing some elaborate mime. It was mesmerizing. Fluid. Almost like sign language set to music. Sheppard had been speaking in his calm, soothing drawl, but Rodney could no longer make out words, just white noise.

Sheppard waved his arms around, then rested his hands on his hips. He chopped his right hand in the air in front of him with finality. All sound rushed back as the auditory dam in Rodney's mind burst and flooded his psyche.

"This is over. I'm done here."

Sheppard kept eye contact with Mulder, and folded his arms. The room fell silent. Sheppard scratched his stubble. Then the back of his head. He folded his arms once more. There was clearly nothing more to be said.

Just when it looked like Sheppard had won whatever argument it was that Rodney had blanked out, Mulder clicked his fingers, and two brutes pummeled Sheppard, who went down on his knees. One brute kicked him in his right flank where the bulk of the whip marks were, breaking open more crusting scabs.

Sheppard arched his back and groaned. Another brute kicked him in the face and gut. Sheppard doubled over, bringing his arms protectively across his face and midriff. He hovered briefly, then ended up on all fours, his muscles tense, gasping in pain. Blood dripped from gashes on his face onto the dirt floor. Then, unbelievably, Sheppard staggered upright. Rodney saw that he was puffy-eyed. Sheppard wiped away blood from his around his eyes, nose and mouth with the back of his hand, lifted his chin in defiance, placed his hands on his hips, and glowered at their captors as best he could.

Sheppard was the epitome of righteousness.

_Stay down!_ thought Rodney. _Don't look them in the eye!_ _You looked them in the eye, Sheppard. Even with two black eyes you just had to look them in the eye. _Rodney watched in horror as the brutes pummeled him for a second time. This time, Sheppard didn't get up.

" 'M sorry… " and Rodney knew his friend was addressing him.

"Lift him." Mulder looked furious, his patience clearly at an end. Rodney watched as they hauled Sheppard upright, and dragged him over to the hooks. Sheppard was limp in their arms, and at first didn't resist having his wrists bound with rope, he was too far out of it. Then he fought. It took both goons to subdue him. Even in his current weakened state they had to battle to force his arms above his head sufficiently high enough to string him up.

Mulder walked around Sheppard, whose head was now bowed with pain and fatigue. Mulder studied Sheppard's abused back, and frowned. He reached for two thick switches, handed them to another couple of burly goons, and indicated Sheppard's right flank as if he were a piece of meat. The first goon took up position, and the second moved in on Sheppard's left side. Rodney watched his friend's flesh ripple, and witnessed his white-knuckled grip on the ropes, the only indications that he was tense. His face betrayed nothing. And then they struck.

Rodney imagined himself strung up, his fat wobbling as the switches came down.

_Tell them! _

Rodney flinched as they struck over and over again.

_Tell them, John! Tell them what they want to know!_

Sheppard jerked and writhed, but all that came out of his mouth was a strangled whimper and a muffled groan.

_Give in! Give them what they want! Nothing can be this important! _

But Sheppard glanced at Rodney through glazed, pain-filled eyes, then at Gary, then back to Rodney. Sheppard sucked in his lips from the agony, his eyes leaking water, his mouth dripping blood and his nose pouring snail trails, and with that, Rodney left the planet. He saw flashing pinpricks of light swirling around Sheppard, then everything went gray, and he slumped gracelessly to the floor.

Rodney's detached mind sought inane ramblings to latch onto. A challenge. Yes, a challenge! He mentally snapped his fingers. Some difficult math? No, names. Names. That was hard. That required intense concentration.

_Garrek, Maldar and Shanda._ _Repeat after me, myself and I - Garrek, Maldar and Shanda._ _Madison, Kaleb and Jeannie._

Jeannie! His sister! In a heartbeat, he was back in his and Jeannie's childhood Toronto home.

Rodney hadn't just left the planet, he'd left the galaxy. He could relive his childhood, get it right this time. This was his reprieve, and his alone. If he didn't concentrate on staying put, he would end up back there, in that small, cold, concrete smokehouse/slaughterhouse in another galaxy, witnessing what they were doing to extinguish the life of his one and only good friend.

Rodney found himself in their fussy, Victorian-style living room, tucked up under a cozy plaid blankie, luxuriating in a floral armchair in front of a roaring fire in the midst of a harsh Canadian winter. He had a steaming mug of hot chocolate in his clutches, and a turkey sandwich cut neatly into soldiers. He even had an anachronistic, state-of-the-art laptop with all the latest software, bells and whistles. All was well with the world. He felt warm and fuzzy. And yet...

_Turkey sandwich. Soldiers._ Rodney frowned. _Sheppard… _

Rodney then saw the selfsame, small, quaint Disney-like door in the wall. On the other side was that foul building. There was a 'drink me' bottle on the tiny oval Chinese rug in front of the door, and an 'eat me' sign on a doily-bedecked chintz plate. Plate. Plate? Plate! That was _the _plate! The one he had to step up to! He could still leave if he wanted. By the back door. He could hurtle through the sash window. Side-step the plate. Step over it. Smash it. Ruin the set! Run for his life! Leave all the crap behind - leave Sheppard behind. No! Leave no-one behind! It was just a plate. No more, no less. All he had to do was step up to it.

Rodney McKay tossed aside the cosy blankie, spilling his hot chocolate all over the ratty, 200-year old Persian rug, to find - two pills on the plate.

He was Alice.

He was Neo.

And he had to make a choice.

He could hear a curious thwacking sound that could have been his own blood pounding in his ears. He'd heard the steady pounding since babyhood; had imagined some peculiar homunculus climbing up some spiral staircase in his head to the pounding beat of his own blood flow, knowing that once the sinister little man reached the top, he would stop, having reached his target, and his own blood would cease to flow.

_Blood? Sheppard! The blue pill or the red one? Choose... _Rodney chose, and snapped back to the here and now.

_Sheppard! John! Oh, no…_

Sheppard was clearly spent, his dark head lolling on his chest. Rodney watched as they tried to revive him with several buckets of water, but they got no reaction, not even a moan. Mulder - no, _Maldar _- indicated to the goons to unhitch his friend, and whatever was left of him slumped bonelessly to the concrete floor with a sickening thud.

_My turn_.

And Rodney did something he never thought he was capable of. He drew himself up to full height, and stood bravely with his legs apart, willing them to quit shaking. He rested his hands on his hips, Sheppard-style. He thrust out his chin and looked their captors in the eye. Sheppard-style. Finally, he puffed out his chest, and sucked in his stomach. 1940s swords-and-sandals movie star-style. He knew that just as much as Sheppard's lean body had rippled as the switches came down, his own flabby body would wobble.

So be it. He was alive. Just as surely as blood coursed through veins and nutriments coursed through gizzards, he was alive, homunculus be damned. He was fit and fresh, fed and watered. He was reasonably buff. He was steadfast. He was up to the challenge. Perhaps this way, he could belatedly buy some precious time for John.

And Rodney waited for the inevitable.

oooOOOooo


	10. Chapter 10

A/N - I really probably shouldn't be taking this tale quite so lightly, especially since I just literally whumped the snot out of Sheppard, but sometimes angst should be tempered with humor, right? Right? Of, course, right! Or - if you don't laugh, you'll cry… Oh, as for the delay in posting - ego me absolvo. Yeah. :-D

oooOOOooo

Meredith Rodney McKay stood proud and fierce. Nobel Prize, be damned - this would be his finest hour. Mother McKay would balk at the state of him, positively turn in her urn. He was covered in filth, and it wasn't even his own! Oh, the irony.

"You. Offworlder. Start with your name."

_My name… _

Rodney thrust his chin even higher, giving himself a deliberate underbite as his lower jaw extended beyond his upper. He threw in a Clint Eastwood glower for good measure, and a deep, noisy inhalation through his nose.

"Squarepants," he declared on the outbreath. "Spongebob. Squarepants. I hereby swear that I will never give in to your demands even under pain of hideous, agonizing torture. I swear to you that from this day forward, I shall do my utmost to thwart your dastardly attempts to - "

Rodney mentally snapped his fingers and fumbled through his internal thesaurus slash dictionary dot com for the perfect words for his soon-to-be eminently quotable swan song. Goodbye, cruel world, or rather, cruel _galaxy_ didn't quite cut it. As _they_ flexed their muscles, he fought the compulsion to scrunch up his eyes, and cringe. He permitted himself some rapid blinking in time with his heart rate. Maldar mirrored his inane blinking, his face beetroot with fury. Rodney thought the man might just bust a blood vessel, and he managed a wicked smirk. Maldar Aneurisms'R'Us might well have misinterpreted his reaction as one of utter defiance, for he cursed under his breath, clenched his fists before him in exasperation. He looked like a driver with road rage clutching a steering wheel, and the ludicrous image only made Rodney smirk all the more.

"Enough!" screeched Maldar. "I see that you, too, will be hard to break. Take him away. We'll start again at daybreak."

"What about Squidward?" It came out more like Shquidward. "You can't leave him here!"

A sweaty goon kicked Sheppard over onto his back, and waited for a reaction. Sheppard flopped lifelessly, his one splayed hand smacking dully against the concrete floor. "This one's dead."

"Dead? Nonononono, he can't be! He's never dead. Feel for a pulse!"

"Garrek, fetch your mother's looking glass, and be quick about it."

"Feel for a pulse! Looking glass? You want to check if he's still breathing? Oh, my god, are you all frigging nuts? Feel! For! A! Pulse!"

"Get him out of here."

Rodney couldn't believe it. They were too exhausted from beating Sheppard to start whacking him in his stead. That was the only reason they didn't continue with the interrogation. They had clearly worked up a sweat and a thirst, and had to hit the bar.

"Damn you! You vindictive bastards! Let me help him! He's not dead! He's never dead! He's never dead! Noooo!"

Rodney was dragged away kicking and screaming. His lashed out, bare feet aiming for sensitive areas, but he missed every time and accomplished nothing more than raising a guffaw or two at his own expense. He could see two goons hauling a still unresponsive Sheppard, and loading him onto a clapped-out wagon. Where were they taking him? He tried to twist his body around, but then turned his head in his best owl impression.

Rodney was thrown through the door of their prison. No, his prison. He was alone. It had come to the thing he dreaded most. Loneliness. Solitary confinement. After five whole years of actual human company rather than feline, he was not ready to let go. He would rather die. Then it dawned on him; he'd let Sheppard down. He had only bought time for himself. Time-out, time alone, to ponder on the error of his ways.

Despair overwhelmed him. He broke down and sobbed, his arms wrapped around his midriff in a semblance of comfort. After several minutes rocking and wallowing in self pity, Rodney decided to reprimand himself as there was no-one else around to do it for him.

_Snap out of it, McKay!_ _You're not helping any! You are not screwed! Repeat - not screwed! _

He scrabbled into a kneeling position. He scrubbed his face and rubbed his eyes, then found himself wringing his hands. Since he was already on his knees, he saw fit to pray, but to whom? To what? To his 'insert in-vogue deity of choice here'? Rodney felt like misery personified. Which as always might yet work in his favor…

_Please, whoever or whatever you are, I -_ he began as he wiped away tears.

It was, of course, just then that a bunch of marines chose to burst through the door, followed by Ronon and - _oh, happy day! _- Carson. And Rodney instantly put it down to serendipity.

"Good Lord, Rodney… the state of you… " Carson cried.

"Never mind me. I'm - good." _Damn you, Sheppard. You're rubbing off on me. Sheppard… John... _

"Sheppard! Find Sheppard! They took him away! They say he's dead, Carson, but - he can't be! This is Sheppard we're talking about. He doesn't die! He's too stubborn to die!"

"Where is he, then, Rodney? Where did they take him? Our life signs detectors don't bloody work here!"

"I don't know! Look for a rickety wagon with one loose wheel… " Rodney's vision grayed. "Watch out for the bad guys!"

"Major Lorne is taking care of business," Carson stated. As if on cue, gunfire started up in the distance. "Lie down, Rodney, before you fall down. Let me check you for injuries, there's a good lad."

"There's nothing wrong with me. They didn't touch me," Rodney whispered. "Just Sheppard. I only saw him - _afterwards_. Every day for four days. Then, they made me watch. And I was next!"

Visions of Sheppard's poor condition as he last saw him sent Rodney crashing to the floor, his heart thumping.

"I even got used to it! Made light of it! How sick is that?"

Rodney felt hands easing him down, and realized he was flat on his back, and gazing skywards through the thatched roof. He fought an overwhelming urge to rest, to bow out, to be caressed by the gentle, dry warmth of sunbeams, to squeeze his eyes shut and imagine himself on a beach surrounded by blonde bombshells in skimpy bikinis. He longed to hear the sound of lapping waves, but the only sounds he could hear were of Sheppard whimpering and a small boy sobbing.

''Garrek! There's a boy… "

"Settle, Rodney. I'm sure your mission report can keep a wee while longer."

"This one? I caught him skulking around outside," Ronon growled.

Garrek was grinning broadly at being waved about by the back of his shirt.

"Yes! You can drop him now. No, _not _literally. Good grief. Garrek, can you help find my friend? The man with dark, messy hair?" Rodney's voice faltered. "He's covered in - " _dirt and blood_. Rodney couldn't go on.

"Pretty lady," Garrek said simply, and he held out a crumpled piece of paper.

Rodney snatched it from his outstretched hand, and read, his hands shaking.

"Teyla has him! He's still alive!"

"Which way?" Ronon asked. Garrek pointed, and Ronon took off, followed by Carson. Two marines helped Rodney up and he soon caught up with Carson, who had been slowed down by the burden of his medical kit. Garrek kept a few paces ahead, turning to beckon them occasionally, nodding encouragingly as they wheezed and puffed, struggling to reach Sheppard in time. Sounds of gunfire became more sporadic, then ceased entirely. A good sign, Rodney told himself.

Five long minutes later, Rodney spied three figures in the distance. One crouching, one pacing and one prone. There was no mistaking Ronon's silhouette. His hair flicked about his head like an irate octopus as he stormed up and down near the other two figures. As they got nearer, Rodney could see Teyla holding a writhing, bloodied figure. Sheppard. She was rocking him and shooing flies from his body, batting them away furiously to stop them settling on him.

"Oh, dear Lord… How did you find him, love?" Carson cried as he rushed towards them.

"This kind little boy guided me," Teyla answered in an agitated voice. She proffered a weak smile.

Carson knelt down next to Sheppard and began to rummage in his medical kit. "Where was he?"

"Dumped. On a trash heap… down there."

She nodded in the direction of the disused swimming pool they had spotted upon their arrival.

"He must have somehow hauled himself up the ladder. Another thing - instead of trying to get away, he was trying to crawl back."

Teyla's steady voice finally cracked. She nodded again towards a muddy trail and disturbed vegetation.

"I see you're holding him. You didn't move him, did you, love?"

"I would not do so. He was agitated. I had to keep him still. He fights me even now."

Sheppard was feebly gouging his heels into the dirt and clawing at the ground.

"Carson? Can you… come get me?" Sheppard was straining to raise his head and open his eyes, but failed in both. He was almost black with flies, dirt, bruising and old, dried blood.

Rodney winced in either disgust or pity. He couldn't quite decide which.

"I'm right here, John," Carson offered in a soothing tone." Oh, dear Lord," he added under his breath.

"I need you… to find me. I have to find... McKay… " Sheppard flailed his bloodied right hand like a blind man, and finally found purchase on Carson's tac vest. Sheppard shook it weakly.

"John, settle down now. I need to check your injuries. Can you hold still for me?"

"McKay! I - lost him. I'm supposed to… keep him safe, but - they… took me… away from him."

Rodney watched Carson as he palpated a squirming, disoriented John from head to toe. Carson sighed with relief then nodded towards Rodney.

"Nothing broken. Small mercies," he mumbled. Carson then checked methodically for internal injuries, and sighed once more, permitting himself a fleeting smile. Rodney surmised that most of the damage to Sheppard's body was external. Small mercies, indeed.

"How did you ever get this far, son… " Carson whispered as he glanced towards the trash heap. Rodney glanced over too. Some fifty yards, plus the climb. Only Sheppard…

"Crawled… on my front… Not so bad… on my front… Have to find - "

"Rodney? He's right here. Safe. In fact, he's in remarkably good health. Most likely thanks to you, I dare say. He's just tired and stressed out, but he still has a voice. Say something to him, Rodney, for pity's sake."

"I… will… just let me… catch… my breath."

"No," Sheppard rasped.

"What do you mean by 'no', son?"

"_He_ took care of _me._ I wouldn't be here if - "Sheppard tried to lever himself upright using an elbow, but it slipped from under him in the mud. "McKay! I don't know where - "Sheppard began to flail, and look about him, wild eyed.

"I'm… right here, John. Safe… and sound. They… didn't touch me," he gulped. At that, all tension appeared to leech out of John Sheppard's battered body. A smile ghosted across his face, and he succumbed once more to oblivion.

"It'll take us some considerable time to get back to where we parked the 'jumper," began Carson. "It's pretty obvious that the colonel has lost a great deal of blood. As I am sure you are all aware, there is also a risk of infection. I need to treat him here, stabilize him. Och." Carson flashed Garrek a dimpled smile. "Could you please show us a clean, friendly home, lad?"

"Huh yuh. Come."

Sheppard was loaded onto a stretcher, and Garrek led the way, beckoning them once more as he skipped towards an imposing log cabin, turning occasionally to make sure they were following him. Rodney prayed the boy understood the concept of friendly. He watched Sheppard's head bounce against the handles of the stretcher, and glared at the bearers.

"You! Grunts! Could you try to glide a bit? That's not a trampoline! You're banging him around!" Rodney winced at each jolt.

"R-Rodney… "

"I'm still here. Not going anywhere. In fact, the gang's all here."

Tey… la? 'N' Ro… n'nnh?"

"Yep. Here," growled Ronon, as he grabbed a stretcher handle to help steady it over rough terrain. Teyla ran alongside, holding Sheppard's hand. She glanced down at him frequently, as if to check that he was really there. Rodney found himself doing the same.

"What did they do this for anyway, McKay? What did they want from Sheppard?" Ronon asked with a frown.

"They wanted him to activate something bigger and scarier than the pear thingy, but I never found out what."

_I never bothered to find out… _

"The clue is in the pear. Thingy. I believe it to be the base ingredient in their - moonshine, is it?"

"Sheppard called it rotgut. That stuff is lethal. But - what would I know... "

"Noooo… r'tg't… "

"Colonel Sheppard? Do not worry. None of us intends to drink it."

"No. Rot. Gut. C4."

"Blow something up?"

"Still..."

"Still what? Still here? Still - " Rodney stopped prattling at a glare from Ronon.

"John? What is it you wish us to do?"

"Blow. Still." Sheppard's voice was barely beyond a wheeze.

"On it." With that, Ronon took off once more.

"What, you understand what he's on about? He's slurring! He's not coherent! Barely even grammatical! Even his syntax is out of kilter. Still blow what?"

Teyla rolled her eyes, and Rodney found his position slipping from bosom buddy to being the odd one out. Again. He let Grunt One, Grunt Two and Teyla run ahead with their precious cargo, and noticed that their pace was steady, synchronized and smooth. It probably had been all along, though he had seen fit to challenge them, voice his superior assessment, flaunt his superior knowledge - bare his inferiority complex. He wasn't in with the in-crowd. Not really. As one, Teyla et al nimbly and purposefully sidestepped potholes and branches and other barely discernible obstacles. Rodney's mind flew to childhood visits to the Chinese quarter of Toronto. Chinese New Year and in-sync Chinese dragons. Rodney stopped to catch his breath, and as he rested his hands on his knees, he felt his shoulders slump in resignation. _So_ _be_ _it_, he thought, as he watched them vanish like a leaf on a zephyr, abandoning him to the unhealthy recesses of his own rampaging mind.

Meredith Rodney McKay was an interloper.

oooOOOooo


	11. Chapter 11

A/N - 'Scuse delay. Not entirely happy with this chapter. Might just edit it on the run. I confess to being out of my comfort zone when it comes to medical stuff, even as pathetically minimal as this. Maybe it's about time I asked for a beta reader to step in? Any takers? Eh? *insert wan smile here* Yes? No? All righty then… *pouts*

oooOOOooo

Rodney decided to suck it up and catch up. After all, this was all about John Sheppard, not him. Then again, wasn't it always? Sheppard had borne the brunt of the locals' ire. Wasn't that always the way, too? Rodney sauntered up nonchalantly, cunningly avoiding potholes and exposed roots. It wasn't exactly a Sheppard strut, but it was close enough. It was more akin to Rodney's patent 'what's on the menu' bunny hop, complete with an attention-grabbing clap of his hands. Which he instantly regretted. Attention-grabbing had its place, but not here and not now. Sheppard could upstage him any day of the week after being on the receiving end of such horrific abuse.

He spotted Carson, already at the door, squinting stage left towards the setting sun. Rodney turned sharply in the direction Carson was looking, to see Major Lorne and his team sprinting towards them. Grunt One and Grunt Two had set Sheppard's stretcher down on a bench, and were on the look-out for bad guys, who were now few and far between. Teyla knelt down beside Sheppard, and began to stroke his forehead. She gently teased matted hair away from the sticky, blood-caked gash. Rodney remembered Maldar hitting Sheppard twice with his own P90, and winced. That should have been enough for anyone to be out for the count. Except for maybe Ronon.

Where was Ronon, anyway? Shouldn't he have been back by now from whatever fool's errand he'd been sent on? He didn't necessarily always like Ronon being there, but somehow he honestly didn't like him not being there, either. Hm. Food for thought.

Teyla, meanwhile, was wittering away at Sheppard in dulcet tones. She was keeping him abreast of the situation, though she most likely wasn't expecting an answer, judging by the way she was looking about her, ever on the alert. Perhaps she, too, was looking out for Ronon. Garrek sat on his haunches beside her, every inch the loose-limbed, double-jointed child, his hands clasped below his chin. He was rocking, watching her intently, occasionally mimicking her ministrations before drawing his hands back to the safety of his chest. He looked like he was cuddling an invisible stuffed toy.

_Grow up, kiddo,_ thought Rodney, _but - not too soon, eh? _

Sheppard himself looked peaceful, as he always seemed to whenever he was unconscious. Funny how awake or asleep, all was well in Sheppard's world, especially when he clearly felt he'd made the right decision, blast him. Rodney envied him his self-assuredness.

He found himself squatting next to Sheppard, and gently patted the relatively unblemished skin on the back of his left arm, though he wasn't altogether sure which one of them needed the comfort of it. Teyla smiled at Rodney, a sweet yet knowing smile.

_Yes, I'm claiming him, too,_ Rodney thought. _Get over it._

Rodney looked around furtively for Ronon. Still no sign. Where was that Neanderthal?

"How goes it, then, Major?" asked Carson. "We're not out of the woods yet, I take it? Any injuries? We're about to turn this home into a field hospital with your help, if you wouldn't mind."

"Colonel Sheppard?" Lorne glanced at the almost unidentifiable body on the stretcher. The hair, as ever, was a dead giveaway. Okay, maybe a hopefully not-so-dead giveaway...

"Who else?" Carson rolled his eyes.

"Yeah. Figures. No, no injuries. They pretty much gave up without too much of a fight. P90s against crossbows? No contest. They've all been rounded up. No hold-outs."

"That's terrific news. I can concentrate on my one and only patient."

"Is he gonna be okay, doc? He's barely recognizable. Apart from... " Lorne gestured towards his own tousled mop.

"It's mostly superficial, thank God. Dirt, blood, bruises, lacerations - nothing out of the ordinary. For Colonel Sheppard, that is. Nothing some good old fashioned TLC and a stint in the infirmary won't sort out. No, Rodney, I haven't forgotten you."

"Did I say anything?"

"You didn't have to. Major, could you assist us in gaining access to this facility? I've been banging on the door to no avail. I believe they might need a little persuasion to open up."

"You betcha," and Lorne readied himself to pound on the door with the butt of his P90 when it creaked open. Lorne wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Step aside, please, sir, ma'am," he hissed as he and his team barged past a visibly peeved Maldar and Shanda. Lorne looked around, then nodded to Carson, indicating that the building was secure. The two grunts marched in bearing Sheppard, who hadn't stirred a jot.

Maldar stiffened. "Why do you bring a dead body to my home? You, boy. You have a hand in this? Wouldn't put it past you. Always bringing home sick animals fit for nothing but dog food and hog swill."

"Pappy? Let 'em fix the man up good." Garrek tugged on his father's shirt sleeve. Maldar glared at his son, his fist clenched. Shanda merely fiddled with the waistband of her apron, and looked away. Garrek, to his credit, maintained eye contact with his father.

"Now, madam, if you wouldn't mind providing clean sheets and blankets, and be quick about it."

Carson gave her no opportunity to say no. He turned to the grunts, and signaled for them to wait near the table. Rodney marveled at how easily Carson could issue an order, yet make it seem like a polite request. Carson's voice invariably took on a more somber, long-suffering tone when it came to dealing with Sheppard or any other patient of his for that matter, making the mild-mannered doctor a force to be reckoned with.

Moments later, Shanda returned with some old comforter, which she laid out on the table, patting it regretfully.

_Oh, so Great-Gram'maw's heirloom quilt is about to become blood-soaked?_ _Too frigging bad_.

Rodney snorted in derision. Neither Shanda nor Maldar looked any of them in the eye, though they both managed to skulk around. The grunts gently lifted their charge onto the comforter. They settled Sheppard on his stomach and turned his face towards Beckett. Sheppard sank into the comforter, looking more like a sleepy, pouty child flat out after a long car ride than the injured soldier he actually was. Injured? Rodney winced. No, tortured. Almost to death. Rodney's own pent-up fury finally caused him to turn on Maldar.

"Not so tough now, eh? Need goons? A weapon to feel brave? A little kid to beat on? Eh? I can just picture you in your rockin' chair on the porch, rifle at the ready, chewing on piece of straw and screaming, 'Git off mah property!' You sadistic _hick!" _Rodney startled at Sheppard's ensuing moan, and felt guilty for agitating him. Still, he turned to Shanda. "And you are a complacent, cold-hearted _bitch_," he hissed.

"Simmer down, Rodney. You're not helping yourself or Colonel Sheppard. Put yourself to good use, there's a good lad, and pass me my medical kit. I have to get him cleaned up, and set up an IV."

"What use is that? Your friend is dead."

"And you're a bloody idiot. What use is that? Move aside." Carson was a sweet soul, rarely judgmental, but when it came to harming another living thing, he took no prisoners.

"And he won't ask you twice, either!" Rodney was on a roll.

"This is my home! It's bad luck to bring a dead body into a decent, law-abiding home!"

"You beat a man senseless, and dump his body on a rubbish heap? That's acceptable to you and yours because it doesn't violate your sensibilities and superstitions?" Carson grew wide-eyed and red-faced.

"He's dead! They don't come any deader!"

"Dead is when rigor mortis sets in, not shallow breathing, you bloody idiot," Carson ground out.

"He lost a lot of blood! He looks - _empty!"_

"And whose fault is that, I wonder? I'm about to address his blood loss. Now, quit wasting my time and stand the feck aside."

"You offworlders, you put blood back in? Fools! We tried that. Most die."

"There are several different blood groups, not all of them compatible. In any case, this is plasma and antibiotics. I'm certain Colonel Sheppard offered you our medical expertise? Am I right? Hm. Thought so. This may be your property, but get the bloody hell out of my sight. Major Lorne? Would you do the honors?"

"Gladly, doc." Lorne indicated the door with his P90 then aimed it at Maldar, who complied with a shrug.

Beckett turned to Shanda, and pulled the dimpled smile thing. "Is there a chance you could bring boiled water and some clean sheets and towels? There's a love."

Shanda crept out of the room and returned several minutes later, hauling a large, steaming kettle. Garrek brought up the rear with a stack of bowls and a bundle of clean towels he could barely see over. Twilight seeped in through the windows, and Rodney watched in fascination as Teyla lit several candles with her Athosian fire starter. Shanda whispered something to her, and returned with two lit oil lamps, which she placed either side of Sheppard's head, earning a grim smile from Teyla.

"Talk to him, Rodney."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't bloody care, just - keep him with us."

"You said he was going to be okay!"

"I just need to know where he's hurting, son, though I'm thinking just about everywhere."

"Okay. Okay. I can do that. Hey, John? Buddy? We - or rather, you - have had quite a time of it, eh? I… kept you clean and - I kept you company. Funny how I can't combine that into one sentence and just say I kept you clean and company. Spongebob and Squidward, eh? We make quite a team, you and I. We even have a bona fide Gary!" Rodney found himself forcing a laugh.

Sheppard mouthed something, and Teyla bent over to his face to catch the merest whisper.

"Doctor Beckett, I fear Colonel Sheppard is becoming delirious. I believe he just meowed." Teyla stroked his forehead once more, a look of concern and puzzlement on her face, and more than a hint of anger. "Rodney, why do you grin so?"

The faintest smile crossed Sheppard's face before the pout returned. Sheppard frowned, and grimaced as Rodney and Teyla wiped him down with clean water, and Beckett swabbed the back of his hand to insert an IV, hooking the bag on a branch of an overhead wooden chandelier. Sheppard was looking less pale and wan, but that could just as easily have been a trick of the warm, subdued lighting, which could flatter even a corpse.

Shanda stood there twisting a towel in her arms. She even began chewing on a corner. Garrek was eyeing up his mother with an oddly wise look on his face. Rodney doubted that Shanda was reacting that way out of concern, more out of having her home invaded and her property damaged, and decided the kid had more sense than both his parents put together. He also saw another adult expression flit across his face. Compassion? Then the boy's bottom lip trembled, and he buried his head in his mother's apron, wiped his eyes and nose, then sidled over to where Sheppard lay motionless.

"You feel good now," he said simply, and started stroking Sheppard's hair.

"Thanks, Garrek. You are a good, kind little boy," Carson stated softly. "I wish there were more like you in the universe," he added, glancing at Shanda. "Now, perhaps you would be kind enough to fetch some clean clothes for him while I finish up here?"

"Might mean something, might mean nothing, but - I'd like to say I'm sorry for what my man did to your friend. He didn't deserve it. Not in the least. They never do."

Shanda didn't wait for absolution. She skulked off, and returned with a two pairs of drawstring pants and two loose matching shirts. Rodney snatched them with a glare, then realized that she had considered his dignity as well as Sheppard's. Rodney blushed. Not with the shame of being for the most part naked, but by his own attitude. Perhaps he had misjudged Shanda, which would be no surprise as he generally held no-one in high esteem. Except John Sheppard. And maybe Teyla. Oh, and Ronon at a pinch. And definitely Carson. He had respected Weir. And then again, there was Sam Carter. Couldn't forget her. Especially as there was the whole unrequited lust thing between them. He drew a line at Zelenka. Or did he? No, he really didn't. Not if he were being honest. Rodney gave a heartfelt sigh.

Rodney wiped himself down with damp towels before choosing the rather fetching denim blue set of clothing, leaving the olive green for Sheppard. The simple act of picking out clothing seemed quite civilized, the act of a carefree human being. It made him feel normal, and he vowed to give thanks for and cherish his creature comforts and everything else he usually took for granted. Like coffee. And toilet paper. Especially toilet paper. Good ol' TP.

He slipped on the pants and shirt, and found them to be surprisingly lightweight, cooling and comfortable against his skin, like silk. Hm. Perhaps this was the roaring trade Atlantis could do with these people. Lingerie. Maybe even sexy lingerie. He thought of Jen, and managed a fleeting smile.

Shanda caught his smile, and smiled coyly. Rodney did his best deer-in-the-headlights impression, and Shanda looked away, blinking the while. Rodney had the strangest feeling that Shanda had deliberately brought them clothing to match their eyes, and that he had fallen into the trap. Feeling somewhat alarmed, Rodney quickly turned his attention back to Sheppard. With Carson's nod of approval, he and Teyla carefully slipped the other pair of pants over Sheppard's feet and up and over his hips, carefully avoiding the fresh dressings. He tugged gently at Sheppard's boxers, and with that, what was left of those boxers finally disintegrated with a resounding snap of overstressed elastic.

oooOOOooo

Feeling refreshed and surprisingly human if not somewhat dapper despite still being barefoot, Rodney stepped outside to find Major Lorne. Lorne was holding Maldar at gunpoint in the shade of a sequoia wannabe, within spitting distance of the log cabin.

"Got any chocolate bars in your tac vest, Major?"

Lorne pursed his lips, and eyed him in disgust. "Here, knock yourself out." Lorne tossed over a power bar.

Rodney tutted loudly. "It's not for me, grunt, it's for a kid. A cute kid. I owe him," he replied, feeling somewhat disgruntled.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that, McKay." Lorne flashed a grin.

"Well, I succumbed, sad to say. But this is a one-of. Don't any of you get used to it."

"You. Spongebob. Can your doctor really fix Squidward?" Maldar looked contrite.

"What do you care?" Rodney huffed.

"Just asking."

"Of course he can. He said so, didn't he?"

"That's all I needed to hear. Open fire!"

oooOOOooo

A/N - finally got our boy in yummy olive green… *sigh* And just maybe you McKay whumpers/thunkers like your boy in denim blue? Ahah, thought so! Gotcha! Y'all are sooo transparent... ;-D

oooOOOooo


	12. Chapter 12

A/N - it wasn't me, it was the one-armed man!/my dog ate my homework/my homework ate my dog/ - open slot for my as yet to be determined excuse for not posting sooner… Okay, truth be told, these last 3 chapters have proven to be… _recalcitrant, _so I took a riding crop to them, and they've since decided to settle down and behave their wicked chaptery selves.

Yep, 14 chapters in all. So know we know. Just 2 more after this one! ;-D

Caveat - Spoilers for S&R opening scenes.

oooOOOooo

He had imagined his rescue. It had been a dream. A good dream. A great dream. Nothing more. Almost as good and as great as the candlelit dinner he hadn't really had with Teyla. Then he remembered not being able to move without wave upon wave of excruciating pain engulfing him, scourging him, searing his flesh, reducing him to ashes; reducing him to tears.

He found himself trapped in the dark, covered in rubble, spluttering and choking, but this time, there was no Ronon to talk him through if not dismiss outright the agony of impalement. There were no candles morphing into burning gas pipes in his peripheral view. Then as now, it might just as well have been napalm.

He was twisted at an awkward angle. Twisted and blinded. Partially upright? Whuh? He moved his head slightly, and felt a cloth rasping around his eyes. Some rag had draped itself over his face. He'd - just imagined he had crawled away from all the crap that had been covering him. It wasn't rubble like last time. It was trash, pure and simple. It had to be. Some of it was sharp, some of it soft, some of it wet. And the stench - rotting food and other garbage. Fermenting. Turning into compost. Turning _him_ into compost.

He was buried. Or was he? He felt a breeze brush against his body, and heard the steady hum and crank of machinery and the smell of engine oil…

What the hell was going on?

He'd been tipped out of a cart and into a trash heap, and left for dead. Hadn't he? And there his remains remained. No, wait! He _had_ crawled away. Up and out of the trash heap. He remembered the climb, how he'd almost fallen back down several times, his hands and feet trembling and uncoordinated, faltering on slick rungs. He even remembered scraping his belly on the rim. But why did he still feel trapped and helpless? His body contorted as if still pinned under piles of junk?

No, he_ had_ crawled away. Teyla had scooped him up. She… had spoken to him, had tried to calm him down, but - his need to find McKay had overwhelmed him.

He remembered crawling. One hand, one foot, one elbow, one knee in front of the other. He remembered the smell and feel of dirt and mud, the slick feel of his own blood. It had damn near killed him to move his body, but he'd had to. There was no way round it.

He couldn't let them hurt McKay!

He'd heard Ronon, too. Hadn't he? And Carson, who had told him Rodney was right there, and Rodney had answered, out of breath. But - it hadn't happened. Aw, jeez… It had all been wishful thinking, just like that special candlelit dinner for two...

Why, then, did he remember being bounced around? It had felt like a stretcher. Or had that been an old memory, resurfacing as they often did, just like - back then in Afghanistan, when he had prayed for a rescue that was painfully slow in coming. He'd felt welcoming softness, and remembered feeling sore but clean and relieved and safe, even if he hadn't had the strength to voice it. Those memories often came back unbidden, mostly in the still of the night, his heart pounding then as now. Right now, in this strange twilight, he was dredging up ragged memories out of sequence. How could he possibly be bandaged up, yet still be trapped under endless trash? It made no sense!

He listened out in hope for the beep of a heart monitor, just in case, and the soft drone of medical staff, and his team pussyfooting around until he was fully awake. Yet all he heard was scrabbling sounds, punctuated with the occasional squeak. And that humming, cranking sound. So not good.

_Drop it, John! You're still in a trash heap, buried alive. You're losing it! You imagined it! This time, you have to break out for real!_ _Now - move out, soldier!_

John tried to reconnect with his body, and instantly regretted the dumb idea. Everything hurt. No surprises there. But Rodney was counting on him. Rodney...

_Oh, God, no._

These sorry SOBs wanted something, were addicted, and they weren't about to give up on that addiction without playing dirty.

_Dammit, John! Way to screw up_!

He had to move. There was no getting around it. Getting somewhere involved movement, so he prepared himself mentally to crawl out all over again. He decided to reacquaint himself with his body more cautiously this time, though giving up seemed like the easier option. If it wasn't for Rodney, he would leave well enough alone, and just. Plain. Die…

_Rodney..._

John braced himself, and slowly became aware of where he began and where he ended. He hoped he was relatively intact. Mentally as well as physically. He cautiously moved different parts of his body, a twitch here and a squirm there, in an effort to identify which parts of him were trapped or injured or both, or even to discover which way up he was. At least he hadn't been impaled for a third time. Maybe this galaxy was beginning to warm up to him, instead of constantly dumping on him as the scapegoat for all the bull the chickenshit Ancients pulled before and during their 'strategic withdrawal' from the Pegasus Galaxy to the Milky Way.

John shortly became aware of a squelching rawness in his throat. He could barely breathe past it. It felt like strep, but whether that came from sickness or screaming himself hoarse, he honestly couldn't remember. Coughing hurt like a bitch, so he tried gulping instead. He also imagined a juicy medium rare porterhouse to get his dry mouth and throat lubricated. He realized he was wheezing, and tried breathing steadily. His eyeballs felt like they had been replaced with golf balls freshly plucked from a sand trap, gritty and cold. They didn't belong to him, and his eyelids wouldn't open for him. He tried breathing through his nose. It was blocked on one side. Broken? Most likely. And it had only just recently been knocked back into place. Jeez…

His ears really needed to tell him which way up he was. Okay, so he wasn't lying flat, so definitely no infirmary. He was slumped, his left arm pinned to his side. Something sharp dug into his lower back. More rebar... Sweat poured down his back. He could feel it trickling down his armpit to where his arm was pinned, causing his side to sting. If he moved his left arm even a fraction, he could feel the welts there becoming angry, painful and itchy as hell. Poison ivy had nothing on this. He desperately wanted to move his arm, to wrap it around his body, to rub away the cramp in his belly. Heck, just to be able to scratch an itch. Or wipe his nose. Real soon he'd need to wipe his ass.

_Please…_

His right arm felt numb. Trapped. Held firmly in place above his head. He tried tugging his hand free. He tried twisting his wrist. No dice. He clenched and unclenched his fist, testing the give in his - bonds?

_What the - ?_

The action made his hand tingle, as if he had succeeded in pumping blood back into oxygen-starved fingers. He wasn't strung up, he was - pinned. Against something cold and unyielding. He was stuck in the Pegasus version of a chop shop, embedded in a twisted pile of metal. Had he crashed the jumper? Nope, that wasn't it. And just maybe this wasn't the trash heap.

There was a moan to the side of him. Sounded like - Ronon? Had Ronon found him? He tried to turn to look, but could still see nothing. He felt the coarse cloth against his eyes. Opening his eyes slightly, he could just about make out a dark fabric, and feel it scratching against his eyelids. He was blindfolded, not blinded. Wow. A major plus. Things were looking up. Yeah, right. Sure.

He rested his head against the cool metal. It soothed the gash on his forehead, until it warmed up from prolonged contact. Now to think about moving his legs. Both ached. He also badly needed to pee. And take that dump. He did a quick shimmy.

_Ow!_

That sent shooting pains up and down both legs. So he was down on sore, aching knees. He decided to not think about anything below his belt. Why could he feel hot breath on his neck? Way too rhythmic to be a breeze!

_Oh, God, let me go... please... whoever you are… _

John hunched knotted shoulders, and winced at the pull on bruises and barely healed scabs. And then there were those new welts Maldar had dealt him. Something rubbed against them, something… crisscrossed his upper body, tethering him in place.

He was a mass of stings, aches and throbs. He was a quivering ball of agony. He stifled a scream. No, maybe he _should _cry out. Just maybe, someone would give a damn. But - they'd never cared about their other captives. They'd left them to rot, just taking them out of some cramped cage every three months or so to reactivate the damn still. He'd been given all the sordid details of their predecessors' captivity. Why couldn't they have been treated like royalty? He could have handed Rodney over to pampering. He might never even have wanted to be rescued. He had to smile at that.

Oh, God, he had to find McKay! To apologize. He had tried to keep Rodney from knowing what was going on. Another dumb strategy to chalk up to his growing checklist of dumb strategies. Forewarned is forearmed. Right? He should have told Rodney about the still, about these not so fine people's plans for them both. Instead, he chose to blab about his mother and an ex.

_Way to screw up, John. You're a wuss. _

John had never even seen the still. They hadn't ever shown it to him, just described it. They called it the 'contraption'. They had promised to let him and Rodney go once he had activated it, but in another breath they as good as told him that the damn thing would often go wrong, and periodically needed a gene boost. Let them go? He didn't think so.

Activating the pear-shaped ATA gene detector was their first step. Then came the harder part, getting their pet gene bearer to cooperate and activate. That necessitated a higher degree of willingness, or it was no go. They had beaten him to weaken his resolve, weaken his defenses, weaken his body. They had threatened to imprison them both offworld. They said they could either disable the DHD, or even dismantle the still, and set up home on one of their allied worlds.

Why hadn't he thought to activate the damn still contraption, and escape in all the drunken excitement?

_Think, John, think!_ _For crying out loud!_

Okay. Okay. Breathe. For one, they probably would have kept a tighter hold on both him and Rodney, and for two, those kids didn't deserve to be hurt any further by their parents' piss-poor decision making. Even if he and Rodney had gotten home, these people would have disabled the DHD or even moved offworld themselves. Garrek and the other kids would have still been screwed. No, he did the right thing. He held out, and waited for a rescue that never came.

No, wait! Ronon _had_ found him. Hadn't he? Dammit! This was downright problematic! He was so confused. He had heard Ronon yelling for him to hang on, calling him 'buddy,' and growling angrily. John had barely even been able to turn his head, pressed up as he was against metal. Yeah, metal. Not that he could see beyond the blindfold. He'd heard some other guy snuffling nearby. Not Maldar or any of his cronies, but another someone. Someone new.

Ronon had drawn his knives with his usual fury, only to be bamboozled by a bunch of little kids. The man could fight his way out of a Wraith hive ship, but was no match for being overrun by a swarm of kids with poison darts. Ronon had dropped his stunner. Then John had heard him hit the floor with a loud whumph. He had pretty much rattled the whole building. The last thing John needed was another building collapsing on him...

Just then, he heard a voice, alluring and sultry, almost like a Wraith queen. Almost. It had that rasping, echoing quality to it.

"Jooohhhnnn… "

There was a vibration coming through his pinned right hand. It was erratic at first, then it became a rapid throbbing that began to match his heartbeat. The sensation reached lower and lower. Way low. Too low. He couldn't give her what she wanted, whoever she was. Whatever she was. Not thinking about anything below his belt hadn't been such a bad idea after all. He wasn't in the mood.

_Not tonight, sweetie. I have a headache. It's a killer._

"Jooohhhnnnyyy Boooyyy…"

_D-Don't call me that!_

He was with a woman - he was alone. He was entangled in a trash heap - he was entangled in machinery. He'd been rescued - he'd hallucinated a rescue. He was nailed in place - he was spinning and tumbling. He was hot - he was cold. He couldn't breathe –- he no longer needed to breathe. He was losing it. But - there was nothing left to lose...

There was that squealing sound again, almost like a chair being pulled up. But it was just the junk yard rats. He had imagined his rescue. Pure and simple. And he was about to imagine it all over again. He wasn't sure he could go through all that again. If it wasn't for Rodney, he would simply let go. He would treasure the dream of a candlelit dinner; he would treasure the dream of sweet rescue. Until it was all over, and the memories faded with the rotting corpse that bore his dogtags.

He was dust in the wind. That and nothing more.

And the pounding in his head became the pounding on the door.

oooOOOooo


	13. Chapter 13

A/N - OMG! I hereby solemnly pinky-swear never to post anything _ever again_ unless it's absolutely one hundred percent _completely c_omplete. I can't even tell you how much I have fretted over a gap of - *gathp* _- a week(ish)_ between posting this chapter and the previous one. In my own defense - I honestly thought the whole tale _was _complete, but it took on a persona of its own and informed me quite vehemently that it needed 'adding to'. Like - doubling… Since said 'adding to'/doubling involved Shep whump – I somehow suspect you all might forgive me just a tad. If you're still pissy - just take it out on the nearest Shep clone… Feel free to borrow my trusty riding crop… XD

oooOOOooo

Ol' Amfy studied the gene bearer as he first roused then struggled weakly, trapped and befuddled and badly beaten as he was. He could not help but admire him almost as much as he wanted to viciously punch him - but there was nowhere left to punch. His sister's man, Maldar, had been particularly thorough in his brutality. It was time to be subtle. And effective.

Amfy sighed. The next generation should have been able to take care of itself. He _was _in retirement, after all, for ancientssakes. Then _he _came along, the biggest catch of them all, supposedly, and spying him as he did in the tavern that day, he was reluctantly lured out of said retirement.

Amfy's beer belly had a mind of its own these days, and it generally kept him offworld, keeping his bulbous red nose and weak bladder company as he continued his grand tour of taverns. He'd come to visit his sister out of duty. Not that he ever stayed more than a handful of days. Life was dull here, made duller by drink. Shanda had precious little going for her other than her uncanny ability to throw together a damn good home-cooked meal, albeit pear-based. Yet, there was only so much 'pear surprise' a man could digest first out of nostalgia, then out of greed, and finally out of politeness. He preferred his pears liquefied and fermented anyways. Amfy took a swig from his hip flask, and pondered upon the day's events.

He'd come home only to find the latest bearer he'd sent to his doom sprawled out on his sister's table like he owned it, tubes sticking out of him, leading from who-knows-where to who-cares-where and for who-cares-why; and a man and a woman, hovering near him, protectively. He'd let slip the bag of treats and nicknacks, chased the boy to bed with merely a stern look, and cautioned Shanda to keep her fat blab shut without raising his fist yea high even once.

The two offworlders had instantly shielded the man; the woman with her body - defensive, coiled and ready to spring; the man with soothing words, plaintive words, looking like he was begging for alms. Amfy smiled a charming, well-practiced smile that cleverly reflected both trepidation and innocence, and patted the air in front of him in a gesture of appeasement.

_Why can't we all just get along?_

Hah! Amfy had oozed old coot harmlessness, and he'd had them both placated in no time. Or so he'd thought. The damn-blasted woman had reached for two nasty-looking branches tucked at her sides. Amfy smiled inwardly. He'd met both types before. Neither had been a match for his next strategy. They never were.

Amfy had looked duly sympathetic at the injured bearer's plight, then whistled for back-up. The two offworlders never saw it coming. With the offworlders neatly dispatched, Amfy had made short shrift of harnessing the bearer, grasped one of the three handles on said harness - the one between the shoulder blades, the other two being at the flanks - and had dragged him unchallenged off to the contraption housing with the help of the Billigump boys.

They were good boys. Strong boys. Dumber than one drunk cooking duck, but willing and pliable. Gullible, even. They had managed to dispatch that fury-filled, snake-haired giant within moments, and Amfy had stuck him once or twice for good measure once he was down.

Amfy marveled at the bearer even as they slotted him into the contraption's booth, and hooked in the harness, pushing him in front of some upturned bar of metal, which helped keep his lower body nicely pinned. It scraped the barely healed skin just below the harness, but that was just too bad. The eldest Billigump boy - one Tiffalyn P'Kar-Billigump - hauled over a tool box.

After several moments spent hammering and driving screws, the bearer moaning the while, Amfy and Tiff stepped back to admire their handiwork. Wrist strapped and screwed to the palm plate. Eight hooks in two rows of four duly clipped into place. This defiant bastard wasn't going anywhere. Amfy had blindfolded the man, but since this one didn't appear to be a screamer or, worse still, a pleader, he didn't bother with the gag. He hated pleaders more than screamers. But he hated resisters even more. Especially at this stage of the game.

Amfy rubbed his sore shoulders. Truth be told, his whole carcass ached with the day's effort. Amfy's old bones were no longer cut out for this. This had set out to be restful time, a time to be fussed over, to eat his fill in the sun for a change instead of drink his fill in the dark. He'd make the bearer pay dearly for that. Someone had to pay and it might as well be him. The Billigump boys were getting too big to knock around, and they weren't yet drunk enough not to notice a swift backhander.

Now that the bearer's right palm had finally made contact with the plate, Amfy could take his measure, and just maybe finally take a well-earned break. He knocked back some brew. The contraption whirred and pinged, and he heard the Ghost in the Still sigh in contentment at the physical contact, then scream with bliss at the prospect of, well, _partnership_. He'd been right - this one was off the scale, if the array of flashing lights was anything to go by, given that sometimes they barely even lit up at all. This one was almost a full Ancient.

_Good breeding stock,_ he mused. The one with which they could maybe repair their ailing program, as had been done on other worlds. Amfy remembered the days when breeding counted, when livestock was fit and healthy - by the Ancients, when they as a people were fit and healthy. This was fixable. Yeah, fixable. This one was a real prize, and they could start their own royal dynasty to rival the best of them.

He despaired of finding a halfway decent looking woman to breed him with, though his cousin's girl, Minda, hadn't turned out too bad. Yep, he'd call a meeting with the Elders, and consult his cousin about the girl. She was nearing marriageable age, after all.

The man himself was fit and tall. Downright regal even. Good-looking to a woman, he supposed. In a quirky, exotic kind of way, what with the unusual dark hair and odd ears. He even had eyes the color of dirt and leaves, not sky. Just for a change. He was, overall, quite eldritch yet fine. Yep, he'd do nicely. So, not just Minda, then, but Solenda, Waitanda and just maybe Pippilunda if she won herself a new set of teeth. This was all working out just right.

A world he'd visited some years back, Florenayah, had a mythology involving a bearer and _six _beautiful virgins, no less. He'd even met a Florenayan anthropologist in a tavern once, his wimpy tongue loosened by drink, who'd told him how the Florenayans had venerated their bearer's descendants for some ten generations since without question. Amfy didn't think for one moment he could find six beautiful women hereabouts. As for six virgins... He'd best stick to the aforesaid foursome, virgin or no. He could help his people throw together a halfway decent mythology, and watch the brew flow for ever and a day.

Amfy, being self-confessed old, grew tired of standing, and pulled up a chair. The squeaking sound startled the bearer, who jerked, his face etched in discomfort and confusion. The man frowned, and tilted his head in an effort to locate the source of the sound. Amfy fell silent just to torment him. The man was open-mouthed, breathing fast and shallow, and Amfy watched him puff several times, and groan like he was winded. Maybe he was just plain scared.

Sweat beaded on the man's forehead, and formed under his armpits. Amfy watched in satisfaction as it trickled down his battered body, forming runnels until they hit those whip marks, whereupon their now diagonal path was chosen, redirected. Sweat mixed with still oozing blood, and seeped into bandages just visible above the waistband of the homespun pants. Maldar had clearly been in fine form with this one.

_Serves the stubborn, trouble-making bastard right,_ he thought. Where was Maldar anyways? Good thing he'd sent Tiff and the other Billigump boys back to check things out. Who'd suspect a bunch of scrawny teens to be capable of anything more than stealing an extra flagon of brew or a pear pie cooling on a window ledge?

Amfy shortly heard the Ghost in the Still once more, reaching out for the bearer, luring him, lulling him, calling his name. This was only the second time in all his livelong years as a scout that it had manifest itself. They always gave in well before now. So, this one was Johnny Boy. The last one was - never mind. The Ghost always knew their names, read their minds. Hearing the Ghost was a rare treat even as if was as a result of defiance. The Ghost hummed, silently waiting. Waiting for the bearer_. _To respond. Physically.

Nothing. That riled Amfy.

"Want to know where you are, Johnny Boy? You're inside the contraption, and you're about to become part of it. I can rewire and connect you up different, if you like." Amfy gripped the harness by the nearest side handle, rattling the hooks that held him in place. "They're conductive metal, these hooks. You think you know pain? Think again! Pain or pleasure. Your choice." Amfy pulled out two thick exposed wires, cranked a handle, and touched them to the hooks, sending jolts of electricity throughout the man's ribcage. Amfy chuckled when the man wheezed and squealed and jerked and pissed himself. He stopped and waited for the man to catch his breath and give in. The bearer merely sighed, his mouth twitching the while.

Still nothing. _Bastard._ Amfy tried a different tack.

"Your giant friend is lying right beside in a pool of blood, my knife in his gut. And as for that pretty stick fighter… "

The bearer growled, and fought his restraints fiercely, his chest heaving the while.

"What, _you _rescuing _them_ now? Hah!" Amfy slammed his fist on the casing, jarring his wrist and startling the bearer, whose dark messy head now sank low, perhaps - hopefully - in acquiescence. He had won; Ol' Amfy had won. May the Ancients be blessed and praised.

Then came the relentless banging on the door. Well, now. Wasn't it always the way? Just when things were looking up. It was most likely too late then to get this one offworld, and implement the breeding program elsewhere.

_Damn him!_

He would have to trap him another day. For now, they'd have to make do with activation, the consolation prize. Amfy turned to Johnny Boy, and looked forward to breaking him even as the clock ticked. Amfy spat on the floor, and licked his lips, relishing the challenge.

oooOOOooo

"Incoming! Take cover! _Du-uck!_" Rodney cried as he protected his head with both arms. Rodney and Lorne bolted for cover behind the sequoia wannabe.

"Do not return fire. Repeat - do not return fire!" Lorne cried at the top of his lungs to any of his men within shrieking distance. "They're nothing but kids!"

Shambling towards Rodney, Lorne and the grunts was a gang of teenage boys, led by none other than Beanpole. Rodney remembered him spitting on Sheppard back during their prison days, showing little remorse or even humanity for that matter. He and the other boys were brandishing long, thin pipes.

_Oh, not poisoned darts_, thought Rodney. He jabbed a forefinger towards the log cabin. Lorne nodded. Rodney commando-crawled into the cabin, barely missing a dart or twenty, to find - no-one.

_Oh, nonononono…_

"John! Carson! Teyla! Sandra? I mean, Shanda? It's me! Please come out! You're all in hiding, right?" No sign. Rodney bit his knuckles, and hunted. "Allee allee in... " he whispered miserably.

Rodney finally found Teyla and Carson slumped over each other near a tipped-over chair. They appeared to be merely in the throes of a fitful sleep. Darts… They hadn't stood a chance against wave upon wave of blowpipe-wielding rugrats. Teyla would never strike a child, and neither would Ronon for that matter. Their integrity might yet have cost Sheppard his life.

Shanda, meanwhile, was snuffling on the floor in a useless heap, tucked inside the relative safety of a booth. He chose to ignore her. For now. He busied himself with pulling the darts out of his team-mates' limp bodies, tossed them aside, and resisted the inane urge to stamp on them. Rodney prodded them both awake, and found himself automatically wiping non-existent drool from his own mouth. First Teyla then Carson absently mimicked the gesture, wiping away actual drool. As they came to themselves a bit more, they both looked slightly embarrassed. Carson hauled himself up by both Rodney's pants leg and a table leg, and scanned the table top.

"Bloody hell," he whispered. "Where's my patient?"

Rodney spun on his heel. "Shanda? What do you know?" The woman shook her head.

"Now is not the time to play silly buggers, Shanda," growled Carson, turning on her. Teyla's arms were folded in silent reprimand.

"The contraption," she stated flatly, averting her eyes. "Follow your ears."

oooOOOooo

Amfy bent low, and hissed in the bearer's ear. "All you have to do, Johnny Boy, is think 'on'. Tell me, why is that so hard? What difference does it make to you? Your damn people are here. You get to be rescued. A-gain." Amfy emphasized the last word with a double shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. Not that the bearer could see him. He watched the man's body stiffen. And he heard the Ghost keen.

"Go… to Hell, Kolya… "

Amfy knew the name well, and didn't care for the comparison. That was one idiot Genii. And he'd met a few in his time.

"I'm no idiot, Johnny Boy. Acastus Kolya was a buffoon. A dangerous one, but still a buffoon."

The man snorted, and grinned. Amfy shot upright, and paced angrily. Never had a bearer riled him this much. He stumbled over his tool box, sending a number of tools clattering. He was delighted to see the man stiffen, and guessed the sound of a kicked-over tool box was universal.

"Well now, what do we have here?" Amfy cried as he snatched up the screwdriver once more. He grinned, and shuddered in anticipation of what he was about to do. Just then it occurred to him that just maybe he'd missed his true vocation. He could always retrain.

oooOOOooo

Rodney, Teyla and Carson commando-crawled out of the log cabin towards Lorne's position.

"Can we get past them, Major? Sheppard's been taken. There's blood everywhere! He probably doesn't have much time!"

"Care to run the gauntlet of poisoned darts, McKay? See how far you get." Lorne's head was bobbing in and out of his tac vest, making him look like a nervous turtle. Rodney realized he probably looked equally idiotic. He didn't dare look at Teyla or Carson.

"How can you be so sure they're poisoned?" Rodney whined.

Lorne rolled his eyes, and nodded towards two downed marines. Grunt One and Grunt Two. Rodney felt his body slump dejectedly.

"Okay, poisoned," he conceded.

"Any idea which way?"

"Well, we could either follow the hideous trail of Sheppard blood out the back door, or the sound of nails on a chalkboard out the front. Your choice."

"Way to help, McKay."

"Can't you just wing them?" he squealed.

" 'Wing them'? Accurately 'wing' twenty plus teenagers presenting a moving target with P90 spray? You serious? I'm good, but not that good."

_Or that bad_, thought Rodney wryly.

"How the hell do we fight kids?" cried Lorne.

Rodney snapped his fingers several times over. "Easy! We fight kids with kids! Look!"

Garrek was climbing out of an upstairs window and onto a branch of a pear tree. He clambered down with the ungainly speed and skill of a spider monkey, and dropped four-square in front of Beanpole, a boy a head taller than him, and some twenty to thirty pounds heavier. And his father.

"Scrappy little guy… " Lorne said, gripping his P90 tightly.

Garrek held up a hand, and shuffled nervously. "Stop! Right now! They're good people! They came to fix us! Make us work _right!"_

"You!" Maldar spat. "You're no better than these worthless little shits! I oughtta - "

Rodney didn't wait to hear the rest. He had to take the chance. He made a run for it. Sheppard needed him. Even if it turned out to be Sheppard's final moments, he couldn't just leave him. No-one should have to die alone. Expecting a dart in his gluteus maximus any second now, he turned to see twenty blowpipes aimed not at himself or any other Lantian, but at Maldar.

_Way to piss off a gang of armed teens._ '_Worthless_ _little_ _shits', eh?_ _Big_ _mistake!_ _Halleluyah..._

Rodney hightailed it, closely followed by Carson, Teyla and what remained of Lorne's marines, and headed towards the source of the racket. Lorne took point, and Rodney tucked himself in behind him, gathering up sticks on the way, prepared to do battle. For Sheppard.

oooOOOooo

Amfy pressed the screwdriver into the man's exposed flank, which presented in squares framed by leather. He dented his skin, then twisted, drawing blood. "Have you any idea how much damage I can do before they break in?" Amfy scored several lines parallel to the whip marks through the harness. The man's side twitched and spasmed, and he gasped somewhat and grunted even more.

"Carson… "

"Carson?"

"Will fix… "

"That your healer? Can he fix a slit throat?" He poked the screwdriver against the pulse point in the man's neck, and scored across his throat. "A dent in your skull?" Amfy scooped up a hammer, and tapped it lightly against the man's temple. "Well?"

The man pursed his lips, and bowed his head in resignation.

Y'know, Johnny boy, you're really starting to rile me."

"Have… that effect..."

"You think you're some kind of hero? I say you're a fool!"

Amfy kicked the man in his presenting bare shin and ankle. He let rip a hearty guffaw even as the man scrunched up his face, and chewed his lip, his entire body quaking. This might have been fun if it hadn't been serious. He kicked him relentlessly, until his booted foot hurt, and his leg grew tired and the man's leg turned black and blue.

_That's for all the times I_ _was ever kicked,_ he thought, and then wondered why such thoughts arose unbidden after so many years away from home. Angry now for some indefinable reason, Amfy grabbed the man's hair, slammed his head against the metal, and pressed a screwdriver against his neck once more, leaving a white bloodless dent even as the man's neck flushed crimson. He dropped the screwdriver, and hefted the hammer instead, testing its weight in his hand. Amfy fought the urge to beat the man's brains in. No other bearer had ever riled him this badly.

"Let me tell you this one last thing, Johnny Boy. You'll be out of it, and they'll never know it was me, since you already are a sorry, bloody mess. I'll be gone. But remember this, my friend - me and mine, we'll be on the lookout for you. Some day real soon, you will be ours!" and he brought the hammer down on the man's bent head, and tossed it aside just as his people finally broke through the door.

"I found him! He's over here! You'd better be quick! He's not looking too good… " and Amfikken P'Kar-Klarrip aka Ol' Amfy aka Scout slapped on his best expression of concern and regret. Amfy tugged his forelock, and in the ensuing commotion, he slipped quietly into the twilight.

oooOOOooo

A/N - phew... 13 down, 1 to go... Might still edit this chapter a smidge, but it won't affect the overall feel, sense or content. Ch 14 should follow within the week. Thank you for your patience. :-D

oooOOOooo


	14. Chapter 14

A/N - got a little dark last couple of chapters, so yanked some of the humor back kicking and screaming. Well, more like gibbering and flailing, really… XD Anyway, this is it, the final chapter. Eep! Prompt at end. Here's hoping I delivered. Thank you all for reading! Have another long Shep whumpy fan fic planned, but I must get back to editing my 85,000-word fantasy so's I can pack it off to a publisher asap. Keep all your crossable bits and bobs crossed for me. Mayhaps fortune and glory awaits…

*rides into the sunset, Indy style*

*rides back out of the sunset, Marcus Brody style* :-p

OMG - I missed out an entire paragraph of detail. Many thanks to Stealth Dragon for pointing out that something was amiss, because it was... My bad. My thanks go also to Piloteria for her feedback via PM. Oh, well, it gave me the chance to elaborate, and I did warn y'all that this was unbeta'd!

*rides off into the sunset once more* ;-D

oooOOOooo

The unlikely marriage of momentum, adrenalin and sheer bloodymindedness contrived to send Rodney on a collision course with the heavy door or send him crashing right through it. He braced himself to either ax, burn or even will the damn thing open. John needed him. Now more than ever. He pummeled the door with his fists, and then whalloped it with sticks. He was vaguely aware of his wrists jarring, sending shooting pains up his forearms, and ironically, he was also vaguely aware of splinters. Millions of them. Invading his palms like nanites.

_How about that?_

He barely heard Lorne's order for him to move aside, and let the marines do their job. Finally a soft hand rested on one abysmally bruised and aching shoulder, and Teyla whispered his name. Rodney turned to her, and in a miserable, faltering voice, whispered back, "Open, Sesame?" She merely gazed back, wistfully. Finally the grunts broke the lock, and eyed him suspiciously as they charged past him. Like he was some psycho or something. Then Rodney was inside, swept along in the slipstream of honed bodies hell-bent on rescuing their CO from certain doom.

Rodney didn't think even their tough training could ever have prepared them for the visual onslaught. The collective gasp from hardened marines said it all, and as a non-hardened, non-marine, it sent Rodney reeling. Even after everything they'd been through, even after everything the bastards had pulled, nothing could have prepared him for this assault on his senses. He fell to his knees as blood drained from his head and pooled in the pit of his stomach, churning it, vying with its contents as to which direction it should all head to exit his body, leaving him wrung-out and hurting.

"Oh, God, John. Nooo… " he groaned. Here was Sheppard, more brutalized than ever. John Sheppard was harnessed, and stuffed inside the open maw of a nasty piece of machinery roughly the size of a puddle jumper. He was kneeling, twisted up with his right arm pulled up straight over his head, his right hand trapped and pressed against a palm-sized panel. His left arm was strapped to his side. Blood poured from the back of his head, which was lolling against his left shoulder. The once neat, carefully wrapped bandages around his torso were trailing behind him, ragged and filthy. Sheppard had been dragged here. A short, jagged metal pole appeared to be propping him up, pressed as it was into the small of his back, gouging and scraping his abused skin still further. Sheppard had clearly regained consciousness at some stage, and had fought his restraints. Rodney guessed that a seat had once adorned the pole - _plinth?_ - and the occupant of the machinery should have been seated comfortably. And treated better. Perhaps even deferentially. Rodney felt his insightfulness kick up a notch.

"Colonel! John! Hold on!" Teyla dashed to where John had been inserted, and subjected still further to the sordid whim of desperate alcoholics.

"I don't bloody believe what I'm seeing! What have they done to him this time? Why? What gain could there possibly be that could warrant this?" Carson was at Sheppard's side in an instant, his hands running over the presenting side of his limp, ashen body.

"Och, no, lad… Poor beggar… " Carson's voice was tremulous, unlike his usual detached, professional timbre when dealing with his patients, even John Sheppard.

Before removing Sheppard from the machinery, Carson gently felt for a pulse, then felt his neck and back, scanning too for visual cues as to any spinal damage, given the awkward angle of his body. He bent down, peeled away the blindfold, and lifted both eyelids, deftly whipping out his penlight. Teyla hovered, her eyes questioning, awaiting further instructions, and blinking back tears. "Help me lift him out, love. Gently. He has a new head injury. Where's the old man who was here? This is fresh blood. I'm thinking he had a hand in this."

"Ol' Andy? It was him, you know. I recognized him." Rodney spotted the bloodied hammer, tucked under the machinery as if attempting to slink away in shame for its part in Sheppard's torment. He also spied a broken-off bucket seat. The thick tangle of exposed wiring snaking out of the machinery and reaching towards Sheppard didn't bear thinking about, given the metal hooks which regaled the front of Sheppard's harness. More hooks... Conductive metal... Rodney shuddered. Then he heard a grunt. It didn't come from Sheppard. Nothing came out of Sheppard's mouth, not even with all the manhandling. Apart from the distinct lack of rigor mortis, there was nothing much to indicate that Sheppard wasn't already quite dead. Except that blood was still pumping out of him, indicating - what, a strong pulse? Rodney wondered how he could possibly feel relieved and horrified and sickened all rolled up in one.

"Ronon… " Teyla flashed a smile of relief. "Are you injured?"

"Got shanked. No big deal."

Teyla scanned him, nonetheless.

"Lie down, Ronon. I'll be with you shortly." In triage mode, Carson did a quick visual on Ronon, who hadn't even paled. Sheppard, on the other hand, was sallow, clammy and unresponsive. Rodney would have been satisfied with a moan. _Anything._ Even an insult. Sheppard wasn't dead, but he could be dying. The blood wasn't pumping now, it was dripping, indicating - _Pulse, weak... That, or blood, drained... Oh, nonononono... _Rodney was grateful that Carson had set about wrapping a dressing around Sheppard's head.

"Lorne, assemble your most strapping lads. I need to get the colonel into a neck-and-back brace, just to be on the safe side, and onto a stretcher and back to Atlantis asap. Ronon, if you won't lie down, then at least blow the bloody thing to Kingdom Come… "

"On it."

And for the second time in recent days, Rodney found himself bringing up the rear, and deferring to Sheppard on a stretcher. This time, he harbored no resentment. Only love.

_How about that_, he uttered to himself once more.

oooOOOooo

A week or so later, Rodney set out to annoy Sheppard into fully waking up now that all the lifesaving fooferah and voodoo was over. He typed on his keyboard extra loud with his one uninjured finger, which mercifully was his right index, and sighed with relief as his friend's eyelids began to flutter then open to unseeing, glassy-eyed hazel slits.

"Atlantis. 'M not dead?"

"For the umpteenth time, yes, you're in Atlantis, and no, you're not dead. Just half-dead. Much like you are not a wit, only half. You still have a ways to go before you earn your fully dead patch. Keep working at it, why don't you. Don't mind us. It's not like we care or anything." But care he did.

Sheppard's head had bled profusely, and even with all of Carson Beckett's reassurances over the past several days that yes, the scalp bleeds easily and is hard to staunch, and no, Sheppard wasn't going to die or be left brain damaged or vegetating, and no, a broken ankle wasn't life-threatening; days of staring at a mummified Sheppard looking desperately ill, and only slowly coming to did nothing to alleviate his worry. For some strange reason, there in the infirmary, it was still as if there was only the two of them, back there in the cold and filth and with death threats hanging over them, and that Sheppard might even now leave him to rot alone. Not even the supposedly comforting presence of Jennifer, Carson and sundry nursing staff could alleviate the empty feeling.

_Heightmeyer, here I come_, he thought. No, Heightmeyer. Heightmeyer was - _gone_. Grodin. _Gone_. Weir. _Gone_. Ford ? MIA. _There but for the grace of 'insert in-vogue deity of choice here', go I… _

_"_As for getting your wits about you, Sheppard, I will despair of that forever."

"So, not… dead?"

"As usual. Look at my hands, Sheppard. I was maimed. Maimed! While saving your skinny ass." Rodney held out bandaged hands. Jennifer threw him a mock glare in reprimand.

"S-Splin-"

"Splin?"

"Splin-ters?"

"Yes. No! More like stakes, really." Rodney frowned, as he turned to Jennifer to be ministered unto. Now was the perfect time to practice those Sheppard-style puppy dog eyes.

"Ronon? Teyla?"

"Also not dead."

"Right here, Sheppard."

"I am also here, John."

"Not dead," Sheppard mumbled, before settling back down to sleep.

Rodney rolled his eyes.

oooOOOooo

Another week later, and Rodney accompanied Woolsey to the infirmary to find a marginally de-mummified Sheppard playing merrily with his Nintendo DS, and Ronon slumped in the chair beside him, snoring heavily. Woolsey closed his eyes momentarily, perhaps to gather his thoughts before speaking. Woolsey cleared his throat, causing Ronon to leap up with a growl before slouching back in the chair again, glaring the while.

"Ah, Mr Dex. I see you got my memo. Colonel Sheppard, if I might have a word. I sent Mr Dex here along with Major Lorne's team to several worlds, all located via the Atlantis database, thanks to our very own Dr Rodney McKay, and over to you, Dr McKay." Rodney basked in the praise, then continued where Woolsey left off.

"I located seventeen stills in all," he began, waving his bandaged hands in an exaggerated manner. "Yes, it was actually a _still_, Sheppard, would you believe. But not just any old still. It was gene activated, and that's where you came in. Several societies once venerated their gene bearers, who morphed into royalty with little recall as to their humble origins."

Rodney paused to clear his throat, and to make sure everyone present was either still with him or at least awake. So far, so good. This might even be a record.

"In many cases, it was conveniently swept under the rug. Royal coats of arms containing a pear and other fruit especially bananas - or banana-like symbols - still bear lasting testament to said origins. In others, the stills even became shrines, though without working knowledge or even historical documents. Not that religion needs supporting evidence, of course, being faith-based. Some even worshipped a pear-shaped object. Which is even sadder, in my opinion. Bananas and other phallic fruit were also prevalent, and some even worshiped elongated vegetables, including a purple cucumber. Though technically, the cucumber is a fruit, but I digress. At that point, we decided to leave well enough alone. However, then we have those who didn't fare quite so well. Basically, they were kept prisoner under appalling conditions. There we intervened. Those stills we eradicated. Five stills had already been demolished, or had simply crumbled over the millennia. Our new friends, meanwhile, have had to go cold turkey. Oh, what a shame. We disabled their gate. Temporarily." Rodney grinned as he finished his report, but kept his bandaged hands on public display.

_Injured man, here. Wounded horribly in the line of duty. Hello?_

And now, over to you, Mr Dex," Woolsey stated.

"Planted C4," Ronon stated with a grin.

"Quite. Colonel Sheppard, did you catch any of this?"

"Ronon... planted C4?"

"Ah, I see you read Mr Dex's mission report, which comprised the following, if my recollection is correct. Ahem. And I quote: "Planted C4. Godzilla-stills went boom."

Ronon winked at Sheppard, then looked at Woolsey with his best poker face.

"Ronon, trim… the fat... off your next… mission report, will ya," Sheppard said with a return wink.

"I'll think about it."

"Colonel Sheppard, if you are up to visitors, I'd like you to meet Mr and Mrs Niklam Zirremil plus their newborn son." Just then, a young couple, escorted by Teyla, entered timidly, hero worship written all over their faces.

_Figures,_ thought Rodney.

"Colonel Sheppard, we'd like you to meet our baby boy. Without you - " Mrs Zed turned to Woolsey for guidance. Woolsey nodded encouragingly. "Anyway, we wanted you to know that we are going to name him 'John' after you. Thank you."

Rodney tutted even as Sheppard stared, open mouthed, in disbelief. Rodney wondered if this was quite the right moment. One minute the man was recovering steadily, the next he looked like he was about to fall apart. Sheppard's breathing pattern was growing more and more erratic. Where was Carson? Rodney wanted Woolsey to back off, and glared at him when he continued unabashed.

"Colonel Sheppard, the following is a list of bearers who have been liberated, the circumstances of their incarceration and treatment have been submitted for the record - an elderly woman known solely as Ma Gassop; the entire redheaded Exlay clan; one hundred and ten unrelated and extremely diverse slaves who want to stick together, and who are to be allocated a new homeworld, and a three-year old girl being used to run a diagnostic, whose name and homeworld we have yet to determine."

"How… "

"McKay has been scouring Atlantis's database for a possible match."

Sheppard frowned in puzzlement. "Who… "

Rodney chuckled. He noted that Woolsey was getting better at interpreting Sheppard's typically monosyllabic post injury responses. There was hope for him yet.

"We have appointed several linguists to transliterate and translate the cryptic markings on a medallion around the child's neck. She sobs out one single word, 'Mellamy.' We are not certain if that is her actual name, a baby version of her own name, or perhaps even a word meaning 'Mother.' Teyla is looking after her for the time being. Colonel Sheppard, what I would like to say is - these people are all safe now, safe because you didn't walk away. You knew… You - understood the consequences."

Rodney looked at Sheppard, whose head had dropped into arms folded across knees. Not exhaustion this time. It was all too much. It had to be. John had endured so much, and now he was finding out names and faces of actual people who had benefited after all his suffering. Not that he would likely see it that way. Rodney watched transfixed as his friend finally broke down and sobbed. Rodney had never seen the like, and doubted he ever would again.

Sheppard slowly nodded twice, his face hidden from view, his shoulders quivering. Then he tossed his head back into his pillow, and stared at the ceiling, as if blanking everything else out. He slung one arm across his eyes. Rodney recognized the gesture; Sheppard was ashamed of his tears. Woolsey shuffled uncomfortably, Ronon folded his arms and Teyla pushed a tissue into John's hand.

"Good, " he said, quietly, after a while. "That's good."

No, Sheppard would never fall apart. He was just overwhelmed. That was it. Overwhelmed. As Ronon would say, no big deal. Sheppard scrubbed a hand across his face, and sniffed.

"Where… "

" …Is young Garrek? In the bed next to you, with a broken arm," Woolsey continued. Garrek grinned, and raised his casted arm. It wasn't so much signed as decorated with cartoon images. Rodney remembered how Grunt One and Grunt Two had spent an hour with Garrek, scribbling away with markers and rough-housing with him, as they themselves recovered from their run-in with poisoned darts.

Sheppard must have zoned out briefly, because within moments, he asked after Garrek again. Rodney winced.

"Pay attention, Sheppard. We already told you. He's right here. At least for another day or so. We thought of handing him over to the Athosians, but that would involve wrenching him away from his culture, everything he's ever known. Halling has offered to give the boy a vacation, take him a-huntin' an' a-fishin' and other macho survival stuff, most likely involving athlete's foot and crotch rot and even more broken limbs, then we send him home with the threat to sic Conan here on his parents if they so much as lift a finger to him."

"Did… his father hurt him?" Sheppard's eyes did the puppy dog thing.

"Sadly, yes."

Sheppard instantly looked fit to kill. He clutched the rails of the infirmary bed, struggled to extricate himself from the confines of his sheets, and as his heart rate shot up, alarms went off, and Carson flew in. Finally. Rodney changed the subject as Carson did his voodoo thing, and Sheppard's readings went back to within the confines of whatever Carson apparently deemed satisfactory.

"Halling has expressed an interest in adopting Mellamy, if we can't track down her people. Said he always wanted a daughter."

Rodney shuddered to think of Madison, his niece, being snatched away from Jeannie and Kaleb, and wondered exactly when he'd gone soft.

oooOOOooo

"What about… the AI," Sheppard asked flatly. Another week on, Sheppard was three-quarters demummified. He was clearly getting antsy. And annoying to boot. It was part of the routine.

"AI?" Rodney looked at Jennifer, who looked at Teyla, who looked at Ronon, who looked at Woolsey. Who looked at Rodney. As did Sheppard.

_Traitors! _

"Come on, McKay. AI. Artificial intelligence? In the damn machinery."

"Ah, yes. We - kinda sorta hoped you didn't get to that stage."

"Why? What's wrong? Rodney? McKay?"

Rodney looked around, his face flushed. Ronon put his hands up in mock surrender with a huge grin, Jennifer blushed, Teyla frowned and Woolsey shuffled silently on the spot. Rodney mouthed 'thanks for nothing', and glared at them.

"Well, according to the Ancient data base, the original plan included a specialized piece of hardware designed to, erm, " Rodney cleared his throat, "_encourage_ the volunteer -"

"Volunteer?"

"Um, yes. That would be it. Moving on now, guess what's for lunch today? Would you believe - chicken pot pie! Not actual chickens, more like velociraptors, really, though 'velociraptor pot pie' doesn't quite have the same appetizing ring to it. "

"Rodney."

"One hundred and ten freed slaves, Sheppard, that's twice the number of Genii soldiers you reckon you killed in cold blood… "

"Rodney!"

"It was an orgasmatron."

Sheppard mouthed the word slowly. Then burst out laughing. "I guess I drew the short straw… "

Sheppard never ceased to surprise him. One minute he's fragile, the next -

"Yes, you did. The AI supposedly first makes auditory contact, then visual and then - well, you get the picture. This place was once a resort, after all. Those hedonistic Ancients knew how to party. Activating the still wasn't considered a chore back in the day."

"Just my luck, huh? The damn thing backfired on me."

"Only because of Ol' Andy's incompetence. Yes, several members of one gene-bearing royal family had permanent grins. We put it down to fine living at first. Anyway, moving on." Rodney turned to Ronon."Godzilla-still? Seriously?"

"Yep."

"Not Godzilla-orgasmatron?"

"Nope."

"Do we have the plans? Eh? Wait! Where are you all going? Well, looks like it's just you and me, Sheppard. Chess? Yes? No? You're eyes are closing again, Sheppard. I'll take that as a no, shall I?"

oooOOOooo

Rodney swung by a few days later bearing gifts. Sheppard had been in the infirmary for nearly a month. He was ninety five percent bandage-free, give or take. Or was that five percent bandaged?

_Waning crescent, five percent full._

Yes, keeping a wary eye on Sheppard's current demummification was like watching phases of the moon though one cycle. It was also inversely proportional to Sheppard's growing more and more stir crazy. While Jennifer busied herself with checking Sheppard's charts and vitals, Rodney pulled up a chair, and got straight to the point.

"There's something I don't get. Sheppard. Why wouldn't you give in?"

Sheppard rolled his head, and grimaced. So Sheppard.

"They weren't planning on letting either of us go once the still was activated, Rodney," he squealed. "They were going to hide us offorld. They held this one guy in solitary confinement somewhere for ten years. They told me he died alone. I - didn't want that for you." Sheppard bowed his head and looked away. "Did you get some chocolate to the kid?"

"To the Deliv- the delivery boy? I mean, Garrek? I did. Promised we'd bring more for him and the other little tykes on our follow up. He likes me, you know."

"What's not to like? Kids are drawn to you, McKay. You're a natural."

"I'm a big kid. It helps. Speaking of big kids - would you quit poking at your scabs, Sheppard? That is just gross!"

"Aw, McKay. Have a heart. They've just gotten to the fun, itchy stage, They're… nice and crusty around the edges." Sheppard pouted in concentration, and picked at a large scab near his left elbow. It wasn't quite ripe for the picking, and started weeping profusely.

"And you call me a big kid."

"Takes one to know one."

"Speaking of which - brought you something." Rodney dropped a hastily wrapped package on Sheppard's bed, and grinned. He suppressed the urge to hop on the spot. He did, however, clap his hands and rub them together.

"For me? Wow." Sheppard tore the package open. "You shouldn't have."

"You're welcome!"

"No, really. You shouldn't have," and Sheppard held up a three-pack of Tigger boxers between his thumb and forefinger.

"Sheppard, that's brand new underwear, not a dead mouse. To replace, you know, your girlie ones. I couldn't get Wol ones for myself. Turns out he's not such a popular character. Go figure. Hm. Anyway, I settled for an Eeyore pair instead. It even has a pin-on tail for fun and games."

"TMI, McKay." Sheppard glared.

Jennifer dropped the chart. She blushed, slapped Rodney playfully on the shoulder, and left the area, leaving him to stare after her in puzzlement. Then Rodney remembered he had a singular talent for clearing rooms. At least Sheppard wasn't going anywhere anytime soon... He was a captive audience, stuck as he was in the infirmary. Maybe that's why Rodney liked him so much.

"You do love 'em, don't you?"

"Yeah. Sure I do."

"I knew it!" Rodney bounced on his toes. "Or should I have bought Squidward ones?"

"No! Thanks all the same." Sheppard grimaced again.

"Still hurts?"

"I'm good," Sheppard replied, and he wriggled to get comfortable, then snuggled down to sleep.

"Like you'd ever tell anyone," and Rodney smiled a fond smile he usually reserved solely for his laptop after a very long haul.

"One hundred and ten, you say?" Sheppard said, opening one eye to a slit.

"One hundred and ten exactly. Do you feel redeemed yet? I know you still beat yourself up over the Genii thing."

"I don't. Slaves, you say?" He struggled to open the other eye, to no avail.

"Slaves."

"Wow. Anyway, still doesn't make it right… Those Genii soldiers, they weren't exactly bugs on a windshield… " Sheppard's words had that sleepy slur to them.

"Freed slaves. Hello? New parents, some little old lady who gets to see her family once more before she goes to meet her maker and all that, a lost tribe of carrot tops, and a little girl who will find her family or at the very least is guaranteed a loving home. And then there's Garrek and all those other rugrats. And the next generation. Justification."

"It was all worth it."

"It was. What was?"

"This," and Sheppard stared long and hard at his slowly healing body, until his eyes glazed over once more, whereupon he closed them.

_Sleep the sleep of the just, Sheppard._

And so, one Dr Rodney Meredith McKay thanked his ever-elusive 'insert in-vogue deity of choice here' for the existence of one Lt. Col. John Sheppard, who sought no accolades, no laurels, no prizes; no medals, no kudos, no points; and yet when it came down to checks and balances, Sheppard gave more than he took. And that, he decided, is what Sheppards do best.

The End. *sigh*

oooOOOooo

Prompt from Sidhartinas aka Steve Austin aka John's Cat:

'I really, really wanted to read a fic in which Sheppard gets whumped (of course) but in a primitive society just to have the Atlantis team impress the villagers with the medical advances they have… and that I could read a little more comfort between the moment Sheppard gets help to the moment he awakens in the infirmary.'

A/N - The comfort for our boy was on-and-off throughout via Rodney rather than slap-bang at the end. Since I'm not up on medical stuff, I made the villagers dumber than a dumb thing to make myself look vaguely knowledgeable. ;-D :P

oooOOOooo


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